


Frame of Reference

by DashingApostate



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Sexual Content, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DashingApostate/pseuds/DashingApostate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ancient artifact reverts Hawke, Carver, Anders, and Fenris back to their younger selves with no memory of their current lives. Anders and Leto grow close as the others struggle to find a way to restore the future Champion of Kirkwall and his companions back to normal. But perhaps things will not go according to plan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Another Errand

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for stopping by and giving this a read!

_\- - -_

 

 _"You_ _do not want me dead."_

The words ran through his head, over and over. That voice, harassing him as it had a lifetime ago.

 _"I have information,_ elf. _I will trade it for my life."_

Fenris closed his eyes and took another long swig of Danarius' wine. He swallowed once, only to feel the bottle empty down his throat.

_"You have a sister. She is alive."_

Fenris growled, hurling the empty bottle across the room with a familiar crash of shattering glass. 

Hadriana. His former tormentor...

He had killed her. Reached into her chest and crushed her heart; watched as the life had left her as she choked on her own blood. The only one other than his former  _master_ that he truly wanted dead no matter the cost. He had gotten vengeance and...

And, he felt hollow.

Fenris opened a fresh bottle.

The way they all had looked at him...even Hawke. The man had reached out to him, had worried over him. And Fenris had thrown it back in his face. Going as far as to insult him. And how had Hawke responded? He had assured Fenris that they were _friends_.

Fenris had let the rage that smoldered, that _burned_ inside of him drive him for so long that...friendship was simply not something he knew how to do.

He was resolutely avoiding thoughts of anything to do with his sister. His sister; who was not a slave. The sister he had forgotten.

“ _Her name is Varania.”_

Varania. It was almost familiar...

But that could just as easily be a delusion. A false hope to grasp at memories that his mind was desperate and straining to conjure.

When Fenris heard the knock at the mansion's door, he started. He drew the lip of the wine bottle he had pressed to his mouth down before setting it slowly on the table as his eyes remained fixed in the direction the knocking sounded. 

He contemplated ignoring it completely.

Fenris was in no mood to go meandering around Kirkwall with Garrett Hawke or any of the company he kept. The knocking steadily began to increase in volume, setting Fenris' teeth on edge.

When the door was opened, he made no move to turn around but his irritation increased ten fold. "Hawke, I must insist you do not enter this mansion without my consent."

The voice that followed did not belong to Garrett Hawke. Worse still, it was the voice of a man that should have known better than to push Fenris. _Not now._

"Right. Well. Seeing as I don't seem to know better about most things, I'll take my chances." Anders' voice replied dryly.

Fenris threw himself out of his chair, moving to draw his sword with such haste that the bottle of wine he had set down was knocked from the table, falling against the floor in a crash of glass on tile that echoed throughout the mansion.

Anders regarded him mildly. "You know, not that I partake much lately; but that really is _such_ a waste."

It infuriated Fenris that the abomination seemed unafraid of him. He had apparently come to some sort of wildly incorrect conclusion over the past three years that they were in any way friendly.

"What are you doing coming in here, mage?" Fenris growled.

 _"Hawke_ sent me. He needs us for another ridiculous little 'errand'." The infuriating blonde shrugged. "Though if you are too drunk to lend a hand...I'm sure Hawke will understand."

Fenris' eyes flashed. "Perhaps you should be less concerned on Hawke's thoughts of my sobriety and more concerned about how he will react to me dragging your corpse to his new estate."

"Look, I didn't come here to piss your prickly arse off. Hawke told me you were not likely to answer the door, and insisted I come in anyway." Anders regarded the sordid state of the mansion with its three-year-old rotting corpses and thick layer of crushed glass. "I got the impression he was worried about your health. Truly, I can't imagine _why_."

Fenris could not stand the sarcastic lilt the mage constantly used.  _"_ Get. Out. _"_   He demanded with slow, deliberate warning. 

Anders held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "All right, all right. Didn't want to be in here anyway. Now that I see that you are still breathing, I'll just - wait outside."

Fenris stood with his sword still raised and watched the mage closely as he backtracked out of the mansion. When he was no longer in view he maneuvered his sword swiftly into place at his back. He stared at the empty doorway and mulled over the option to send the mage back without him. Glancing at the bottles of wine scattered and broken around his table, he considered the idea of keeping his mind from wandering to topics he was not ready to face.

He pretended not to notice the impertinent smirk the abomination wore as he strode quickly and deliberately passed him out into the streets of Hightown.

\- - -

"Why did Hawke send you instead of coming himself?"

Anders was surprised that Fenris was willingly starting a conversation with him after he had just traipsed straight into his mansion. Better yet, it was a wonder he had not been gravely injured for such a stunt. "Er, he went to talk to Carver."

Anders glanced back to look at Fenris, who had decisively kept a few strides behind him in an obvious attempt to disassociate them.

Or perhaps it was simply because he was a 'filthy mage'. Prat. 

The elf's dark eyebrows were somewhat raised. "Carver. Hawke has not spoken with his brother much since the Deep Roads expedition."

Anders snorted. Carver bloody Hawke. "Not at all, more like. At least; according to Varric he hasn't."

He knew his voice held an implication of malice, but he couldn't help himself. Hawke was a talented and powerful mage: he was also an exceptionally compassionate man who deserved more than an ungrateful little wretch of a brother that would become a blighted _Templar._

Fenris offered no more comments the remainder of the trip to Hawke's estate, newly reinstated by the Viscount. They stood a few yards apart outside of the estate, silently waiting for the two Hawke brothers. Anders could feel Justice's impatience at the detour from their work toward mage freedom. _Relax. Hawke needs our help._

He ignored the continued, nagging insistence at the back of his mind that he hated to admit filled him with guilt. It became easier to block it out as Hawke emerged from the front of the mansion, followed by his surly looking skirt-wearing younger brother. Carver the Templar. He looked a little _too_ pleased with himself. Anders resisted the urge to scowl at him.

“How are my two favorite 'glowing' companions?” Hawke asked jovially. Anders and Fenris both broached the distance they had set between themselves to meet Hawke in the middle.

Carver stood behind his brother and nodded to Fenris and Anders stoically. Anders raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Fenris nodded back.

Hawke immediately went about leading their little group on their way, down the many steps that led away from Hightown. “So, I received a letter.”

Carver snorted. “Of course you did.”

Anders couldn't help but agree. How exactly was it that Garrett Hawke ended up attracting so much bizarre attention?

Hawke ignored his brother and continued. “Well, apparently Xenon - the antiquarian, do you remember him?”

As if anyone in their right mind could bloody forget.

Hawke didn't wait for an answer, “Anyway, he received a tip about a new set of artifacts he needs for his - ”

“Demented underground shop of horrors?” Anders finished for him incredulously. “Brilliant.”

Hawke just laughed and twisted his staff between deft fingers. Anders caught the glance he had thrown quickly between Carver and Fenris, his expression appearing almost strained.

Anders knew that Carver and Hawke had never seemed particularly close, and he also knew that Hawke had lived the past four years putting his family above all else. What was left of it, at any rate. To see the brothers' already rocky relationship becoming even _more_ strained was difficult to watch.

And Fenris...

Well, Fenris was not having a good week, clearly. For once, Anders was resisting the urge to piss the hypocritical mage-hating fool off in favor of their fearless leader's attempt to keep things pleasant and cheery.

“So then, where are we off to?” Anders asked, his voice light.

Hawke glanced back at him with his charming smile. “I'm afraid the first artifact has already been acquired. Fortunately for us, it was acquired _illegally_ by an unsavory bunch. We'll simply have to retrieve it from them.”

“Fortunately for us.” Carver agreed sarcastically, though Anders was slightly pleased to see him throw his older brother a sardonic smile.

Hawke seemed to brighten a bit. “They are holed up in an old warehouse out by the Docks.” He continued. “They have a few other treasures that Xenon assured we can keep for ourselves.”

Fenris spoke up. “For the last time, Hawke. Broken glass and torn trousers are not _treasure.”_

The handsome mage almost seemed to pout at the warrior. "Hey, we find really good stuff sometimes.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at Fenris' lips. “If you say so, Hawke.”

The rest of the journey down to the Lowtown Docks passed with relatively civil conversation. Anders with his witty remarks, and Hawke quickly talking over any biting assertions Fenris or Carver threw out regarding mages. Though Anders had to physically bite his own tongue when Fenris and Carver began talking about the bloody Order. Needless to say Justice was not amused.

When they reached the warehouse there was not much time for Hawke's clever repertoire before the smugglers began their assault.

“I don't think they're here to chat.” Anders remarked. Gathering power from the Fade, he pooled the magic in his body; quickly bringing forth a shield that enveloped the group.

Carver and Fenris drew their swords in rapid movements as they rushed ahead of the mages, and ruthlessly began cutting enemies down. The sharp resonating twang of metal on metal clashing reverberated throughout the area.

Anders watched with admiration as Hawke brought the bottom of his staff down with a forceful smack that pushed a group of smugglers to the floor with crushing brutality. He followed up with a spell of his own as he threw an arc of flame down on them. “This is my favorite part!” He yelled over the cries and parrying blades.

“Fenris, look out!” He heard Hawke shout.

Anders looked round to see the elf with a blade buried deep into the flesh of his right leg, a rogue smuggler moving to bring a second blade down with an aim for the warrior's tattoo-etched throat.

Fenris was quick to dodge the assault, thrusting his remarkably large sword up into the smuggler's chest and spinning skillfully on the spot to catch a second with a slash through their abdomen. They crumpled around him as Anders rushed over to him, Fenris dropping to one knee with a grunt.

Anders cast a net of his magic around the other man to assess the damage. As his hands drifted closer to the most severe injury, he felt Fenris tense and was unsurprised when the elf's lips curled up in a slight snarl at the feel of Anders' magic engulfing his leg. They were silent for a few seconds as Anders concentrated and Fenris remained rigid and steady.

“Enough.” Fenris shoved passed him, standing abruptly before Anders could finish.

“Thank you, Anders! How kind of you. Why, _you're welcome!_ You sodding, broody, ungrateful-” His mana began to dwindle as he turned and threw one last bolt of ice out to the remaining smugglers. When the last of them fell he pulled a lyrium potion to his lips and downed the burning liquid hastily, feeling that familiar spark of alertness.

Hawke was jogging around, searching the area. Carver watched with his armored arms crossed. “And what exactly _is_ this artifact, anyway?”

“Perhaps it's a magical barrel of fish? A crate of Andraste's favorite seafood dish?” Anders quipped.

Fenris' nose wrinkled distastefully, and Anders found himself recalling that the warrior was not too fond of fish. He nearly smiled at the comical expression. The blasted elf was too handsome for such a bloody -

“I think I found it!”

Anders' attention snapped up in the direction he had heard Hawke's voice. He followed the two warriors up a flight of questionably build wooden stairs to a landing where the other mage was crouched in front of a set of cases. Toward the back of the cluster sat a large, rather ancient-looking chest of cracking black wood, that appeared to be covered in...runes?

Anders' eyes widened a fraction. Hawke had placed his hands over the chest and began siphoning magic over the runes.

He felt suddenly uneasy. “Wait, Hawke. What is that? What exactly was it that Xenon said - ”

Anders was unable to finish his question, his voice tapering out as Hawke was no longer crouched in front of him.

Anders mouth snapped shut and he started in shock as the scene in front of him somehow shifted. Hawke, Carver and Fenris were no where to be found, and he no longer smelled rotting fish. He also did not stand in a warehouse. Instead he looked around at a familiar stone building.

 _Very_ familiar.

It did not take Anders more than a breath to recognize the building as his former prison. Where he had been dragged at the age of twelve to be imprisoned for the crime of existing as he was. For being a mage.

Kinloch Hold. Circle tower of Fereldan.

_Maker, that chest must have held some sort of demon, and Hawke released it..._

Anders felt a shock jump through him, more than a little surprised when he realized that he stood in front of... _himself_.

A young Anders in Circle robes stared blankly through him, a smirk pulling at his lips as he spoke to someone that Anders could not see.

_This is...a memory, perhaps?_

Judging by the contentious look in the young mage's face; Anders assumed that whatever it was he had said must have been unflattering.

He watched as the recipient of the comment reached a steel covered hand into his peripheral to backhand him across the face.

_Ah. Such lovely memories._

Anders had many memories like this. Being dragged back to this bloody tower again and again after escaping. The elation he had felt each time he had managed to escape, to be _free_ , for however brief a time. With recapture he had been punished. Each more severe than last, until...

Until he had been put in solitary. Forgotten and alone for a year; nearly going completely mad.

A cold shiver of fear shot through his body and he tried to close his eyes, to suppress any further memories. To leave the Circle tower behind and return to Kirkwall, and the present. He was disturbed to find that he could not close his eyes, or for that matter, move his body at all...

His younger self had stumbled back when he had been struck, but straightened back up to scowl defiantly at the Templar that Anders could not see. His last thoughts before he remembered no more were of the Fade spirit he could not seem to reach within himself.  _Justice..?!_

\- - -

White hot rage pulsed throughout the entirety Fenris' body at the sight of Danarius standing before him. The feeling of hatred was so all encompassing that he could almost pretend to ignore the fear that had also washed over him at the sight of his former master. His body felt incredibly rigid, poised to fight, or perhaps flee.

He remained motionless for a few short breaths before he realized that Danarius did not seem to be looking at him.

_Wait._

Fenris was quick to notice that there were others that stood before him. His breath caught in his throat in a strangled gasp that he could not seem to hear. He could hear nothing.

The labored breathing of a young, black-haired elf was without sound. He was crouched before Danarius, head bent forward, a leather collar wrapped around his neck. His body coated with sweat, blood, and dirt. He held a sword motionless at his side, and was surrounded by a pile of corpses that he had evidently slaughtered at the behest of his Master.

 _This...is a memory._ My _memory._

Danarius reached out to pet the top of the elf's dark head, and Fenris' body desperately wanted to recoil as revulsion racked through him.

_No. No, I do not want to see this._

That boy was not him.

He would _not_ remember this...!

\- - -

Anders felt something on top of him. He also felt distinctly dizzy. Right. What had he done last night? Judging by the pain in his head and soreness in his body, Anders wagered it may have something to do with a Templar or two. He opened his eyes and attempted to sit up -

Only to smack his face into...someone's shoulder?

Grimacing, Anders pulled himself away and looked around. His eyes widened, and a smile spread slowly over his lips.

Maker, was he dreaming?

Sprawled around him were three attractive dark haired boys around his age.

At a glance, he speculated that he had somehow gotten out of the tower last night and made his way...here. Wherever here was, that is. Anders was suddenly certain he must have gotten terribly sloshed.

The closest to him was a black-haired elf with lovely brown skin. The elf was tangled against a good-looking black haired human whose amber eyes opened with a bewildered look around.

_Andraste's stony arse I better not wake up soon._

His smile faded at the sight of the youngest boy in the pile.

_Templar._


	2. Common Ground

\- - -

 

Leto tensed, his eyes shut tight. He could feel himself on his back, the ground under him rough and hard; and there was an unfamiliar weight pressing all around him.

Was he being punished? He could not remember doing anything to earn sanction. And why could he smell fish? 

Bracing himself, he risked opening his eyes. His eyebrows drew tightly together in complete bewilderment. The location was completely unfamiliar, the sights, the smells. He sat up to take in the surroundings.

Leto stared in open confusion at the three humans cloistered around him on the ground. Weapons were strewn around their bodies, as well as cases of what looked like a jumbled array of miscellaneous junk.

_What...?_

He attempted to slowly extract himself and found his hands and arms armored in unfamiliar sharp gauntlets. Leto felt his unease sharply mounting. Looking down at himself, he saw that he wore a chest plate as well as a tight leather jerkin and leggings.

He noticed that the smallest of the humans also wore armor. Though, it appeared to be far too large for him. Leto assessed each of them silently as he searched the area for Master. The lack of direction or instruction was making him anxious.

The larger of the black haired humans also sat up and looked around the group, his eyes settling on the smallest human. "Carver? Carver, what in the Void are you wearing?"

The smallest human was rubbing at his forehead. Glancing down, his bright blue eyes widened. "I...What? Why am I dressed like a - “

"Templar!" The blonde human suddenly howled as he scrambled to his feet, his golden eyes flashing with fear and defiance.

Leto tensed as he felt the power of magic radiating from the blonde's raised hands. _Mage._ Fear crawled over his skin, and he resisted the urge to reach for one of the weapons that lay near him. He had not yet received instruction.

Carver shook his head quickly. "No! I - I'm not..!"

The older black haired human crawled in front of the younger and stood shakily, his hands raised. "Calm down! Whoever you are, my brother Carver is _not_ a Templar!" His hands flashed with a small burst of energy, revealing that he was also a mage.

The blonde almost seem to relax slightly for a moment before shaking his head. "I don't...I can't trust that. This is some Templar trick, isn't it?"

"It's not!" The older black haired boy insisted, his brow furrowed. He glanced around as if in sudden realization. "Maker's balls. Where are we?! I...I've never been to this part of Lothering. We _are_ in Lothering, aren't we?”

The blonde's eyes remained fixed on the youngest boy. “Is that a joke? How in Andraste's arse did I get to Lothering with no memory of leaving the Tower? This has got to be a trick.”

_Lothering?_

Leto could not recall ever hearing anything about 'Lothering'. They were all speaking Common, but, these accents...They were far from familiar.

Carver stood and began attempting to rip off the too big armor, but was having obvious trouble. His older brother reached to help, only to have Carver shake him off and continue struggling with himself. The elder human gave him an exasperated look before turning his attention back to the blonde mage, whose arms were still defensively raised.

"Let's just calm down a moment." The older brother said slowly. "My name is Garrett Hawke. This is my brother Carver. My father, sister, and I are apostates-"

"Garrett!" The younger of the two Hawkes hissed in the midst of his struggle. "Do not tell some strangers about our family!"

Leto frowned. _Apostates?_

The blonde mage squinted. "You're...an apostate?" Leto felt the magic radiating from his hands lessening. "I - Why should I believe you? You could easily be working for the Order!"

"Look; I'm not sure who you are, but you truly do not need fear me. _Or_ my knuckle-headed little brother." The elder Hawke boy smiled and Leto found it to be quite the charming sight. He felt the blonde mage relax his magic further, though suspicion still colored his features.

"My...my name is Anders." His hands dropped a fraction. “I'm of the Kinlock Circle tower. Or, I was...”

The elder Hawke nodded slowly. “You've escaped?” Leto imagined he would have appeared impressed from his tone of voice, if not for the erratic waves of heat and static energy radiating from the blonde mage's – _Anders'_ \- hands.

Leto watched their byplay with growing confusion. Escaped the Circle of Magi? Was the blonde mage Anders a fugitive?

Or, perhaps he was not speaking of the Tevinter Circles, but of the Circles within the Andrastian Chantry throughout the rest of Thedas. Leto could remember his Master and other mages of Tevinter speaking of countries outside of Tevinter with great contempt. Barbarians, they were called. Uncivilized.

Anders looked unsure. “Er, I assume I must have...but, I honestly can't remember doing it this time.” He let out a shaky laugh.

The elder Hawke seemed both incredulous and amused. “ _This_ time? Have you escaped before?”

The fear and mistrust in Anders' golden eyes was momentarily replaced with mirth. His mouth pulled up in an uneven smile. “Five times, actually. Was planning my sixth...Though, I suppose this _is_ my sixth escape then, isn't it?”

Now the elder Hawke _did_ look impressed. “Our mother loves to tell the story of the night her and our father fled the Free Marches after he had escaped the Circle there. It is an exciting tale...To think you've done it multiple times!”

The air around the group had calmed somewhat. Anders let his hands fall to his sides, and Leto felt the energy of magic dissipate until he felt nothing at all. The Hawke brothers visibly relaxed, though Carver still wore a wary expression.

Leto could not feel relaxed. He was in a strange place, with foreign mages, wearing armor he had no memory of putting on, and he did not know where Master was.

When Leto turned his attention back to the group, he found a hand in his face. He recoiled and looked up to see the eldest Hawke with his hand outstretched wearing a concerned expression.

“Are you all right?”

Leto felt his neutral mask slip for a heartbeat in shock. After a pause he lifted one of those strange gauntlets and placed it in the elder Hawke's warm hand, and he felt himself being hoisted up onto his feet. Unsure of whether or not he was allowed to speak, his mouth remained shut, but nodded his head in silent thanks.

Hawke looked as though he was about to ask more questions, but his younger brother interrupted. “So, what exactly is going on?”

Hawke met his brother's blue eyes and nodded. “That, is a very good question. Anders, right? You claim that you do not remember how you got here either?”

Anders shook his head. “No idea. Literally half an hour ago I was sitting in the library defacing Chantry property.” He wore that lop-sided smile again.

“Carver and I were with our sister, Bethany...” Hawke glanced around, as if he expected to find this sister of his hiding somewhere in the strange foul-smelling building.

“Do you think she is here?” Carver asked, echoing Leto's thoughts. The younger brother seemed troubled. Worried.

Hawke met his gaze. “Carver, I'm sure she is fine. Father would not let her come to harm. Neither would Mother for that matter.”

Carver looked doubtful, but said nothing.

“What about you?” Leto heard Anders ask. It took him a moment to realize it was _him_ that the mage had directed the question. Anders' golden eyes were fixed on his face and Leto immediately dropped his gaze to the ground.

Could he speak? He was unsure if he was allowed. But these humans were addressing him...Would it not be disrespectful to ignore them? If they were in Master's favor, would it not displease him if Leto were disrespectful?

“I...also have no memory of how I came to be..." Leto trailed off, looking around. "...here.”

Leto overheard Carver and Hawke speaking softly to each other, and he raised his eyes far enough to see them with their heads bent togehter. He made out the words “ - Father - “ and “ - Bethany - “ in the midst of hushed mumbles.

He had not realized that the mage Anders had taken a few steps closer to him until his voice startled him into looking up.

“You never told us your name?”

Their eyes met and held for a moment before Leto hurriedly lowered his gaze again to the mage's tattered robes.

“M-My name.” He cleared his throat. “My name is, Leto.”

“Leto.” He heard Anders say slowly. “Hm, well, Leto. Where are you from? Your accent isn't Ferelden."

Before Leto could find the words to respond, Hawke had begun speaking to all of them again. Which was fine with Leto, as words seem to be coming to him with great difficulty in the presence of these foreigners.

“We really need to find someone that can tell us what is going on, and where we are.” Leto watched as Hawke reached down to gingerly lift a staff with an ornate head and a blade at the bottom. “I think we should all arm ourselves, as a precaution.”

Carver moved to pick up a longsword, testing its weight. Leto could instantly recognize that the boy had been through some training. Hawke handed Anders the second staff, and the blonde took it, his face in awe.

“Wow. This is like, the staff the Grand Enchanter has _. Better_ maybe. _”_ He twisted it back and forth, watching it with admiration.

Hawke and Carver looked at Leto expectantly. Leto shifted, unsure.

“Are you not comfortable holding a weapon?” Hawke asked. His voice was doubtful, which Leto realized must be because of his armored appearance.

Leto wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. His face remained a blank mask, and he shook his head as he gave a short reply. “I am familiar with swords.”

Anders pointed to a large black broadsword that lay a few feet from where they stood. “What about that one? Although, it may be too large...” He trailed off and twisted around to look for more weapons.

Leto took this as permission. Bending down he easily lifted the broadsword and tested its weight. “This will be sufficient.”

Anders shut his mouth and stared with raised brows. Leto felt uncomfortable under his admiring gaze and dropped his own to the floor. 

“All right, then.” Hawke began walking toward a flight of stairs. “Let's find our way out of here. Maybe look for some clues as to why we're here?”

Carver stayed close to his brother. Anders trailed after them, but after a moment he looked back at Leto. He stopped and waited, watching him expectantly. “Leto? You coming?”

Leto nodded at the floor. “I should stay with you three. Until I receive further instruction.” He followed Hawke down the wooden stairs, past the mage Anders, whose face wore a perplexed expression.


	3. Lost in the Free Marches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks so much for the comments, kudos, and follows!

\---

 _Further instruction?_ What an odd thing to say. Anders followed the dark-skinned elf, opening his mouth to inquire further only to have it twist into a grimace at the carnage that awaited them at the bottom of the stairs.

Dead bodies. At least...a dozen. Some in _pieces._

“Maker's _balls.”_ Anders' hand flew to his mouth as he fought back a wave of nausea.

He had seen corpses. In the Circle, there had been – instances. Apprentices that had not yet become abominations, and had been struck down before they could fully change. And of course malificarum. But _this._ This was different entirely. This had been a battle.

Hawke reached out to his younger brother and squeezed his shoulder. Carver shrugged him off, but Anders could tell it was an appreciated gesture.

“We should probably get far away from here...Whatever did this could be back.” Hawke said, his voice surprisingly steady.

Anders noticed that Leto appeared completely unmoved. In fact, he was beginning to believe the blighted handsome elf was incapable of forming facial expressions at all!

Shaking himself off, Anders followed after Hawke. The other mage seemed much more on guard, his staff raised in front of him. He moved across the warehouse with care to avoid stepping on any bodies (or body _parts)_.

Anders shuddered.

At the sound of distant shouting, Anders looked up from his feet, only to trip on a severed arm and – well – he did _not_ yelp. He yelled. In a manly sort of way. Catching himself on Leto, he stood and tried to play it off.

“What was that?” He asked too quickly, his voice cracking a bit. _Bloody s_ _mooth, very convincing._ He cleared his throat loudly.

Hawke stood at the front of them, his staff angled in an almost protective slant. Carver was gripping his sword tightly, the white's of his knuckles showing. Leto remained passive, but Anders had a feeling he was more than ready for a fight.

Three human men came into view, running around a corner and stopping short at the sight of them. They were each armed. “Maker's breath!” One of them shouted. “They're all dead!”

The man that stood at the front of the trio had two heavily scarred and heavily _muscled_ arms. His eyes were on Hawke, and Anders found the look in his eyes nothing short of predatory. “That's him.” The man said, nodding his head towards their group. “Garrett Hawke – Athenril's little Ferelden bitch, remember?”

For a split second, all eyes were on Garrett Hawke. His own eyes were wide and his mouth slightly agape. It would have been an amusing sight, if not for the painfully _not funny_ situation they were now in.

“Wait!” Anders was surprised to hear his own voice begin with a amicable tone. “Let's all take just, take a moment to make proper introductions - “

Too late.

He found his ill-advised appeal cut off by a roaring cry as the thickly built man rushed forward, brandishing a massive sword, the other two following close behind.

Hawke shoved Carver back, and Anders felt the cage of magic cover him, keeping him on the ground. Hawke's other hand thrust his staff up with a burst of energy. The mind blast staggered their onslaught, and one of the men faltered, falling to one knee.

Anders pooled his own power, taking advantage of their temporary halt, striking his staff out with a burst of fire. His aim was a bit off in his nervous state, and the fire ball soared passed the first two, only just grazing the man who had begun righting himself. He fell back onto the floor with a scream as his clothes set fire.

“Take that, bastard!” Anders couldn't stop himself from yelling, the adrenaline making him reckless.

Leto had soundlessly slipped from their cloistered group and hurled himself at the large man. Anders breath left his lungs at the sight and _sound_ of the massive swords connecting. He could see Leto's toned arms tremble under the fortitude of the human that was more than twice his size, though his face remained impassive. In fact, he almost appeared – _unimpressed?_

Leto broke the contact and leapt back a step, surging forward gracefully to take advantage of the large man's temporary imbalance. His blade sunk into the man's throat and sliced cleanly through, removing his head from his body. The severed head hit the ground with a sickeningly wet _smack_.

Anders swayed slightly on his feet, holding himself up with his staff. _Maker._

Hawke had begun a concentrated magical assault on the third man, surging forth remarkable force from his staff. The man that Anders had burned had found his feet again, daggers raised as he rushed towards Leto.

Anders quickly stepped forward to push forth a net of magic, wanting to cover the warrior with a decent shield, but Leto did not appear to need it. He had ended the man's life before Anders could complete the spell.

Leto's striking green eyes snapped up to meet his, and Anders held his breath for just a moment, feeling a mix of fear and awe, before offering him a wide relieved smile.

“Maker, am I glad you're on our side.”

Leto's eyes dropped to the ground. Anders let out the breath he was holding and looked up to see Hawke had finished off the last of them. He looked pale, visibly shaken. Anders would not be surprised to learn that this was the first life he had taken.

Carver had gotten back to his feet and rounded on his brother, furious. “Why did you do that?! I – I could have helped!”

Hawke appeared guilty but he shook his head. “No. Father and Mother would never forgive me if something had happened to you. I don't need you recklessly throwing yourself out into danger!”

Carver glared mutinously up at his older brother. “I don't need your _protection!_ ”

“Carver,” Hawke's voice was hard with anger but also a bit pleading. “Not now, okay? We're sort of in a situation!”

“Let's just – get away from this voided building. Far away.” Anders offered quickly, hoping to cut off any more retorts between the two brothers. “Shall we?” He pointed his staff in the direction that the men had come charging through.

Hawke took the lead. Anders fell into step at the back, absently casting a net of his magic out, sensing for any injuries among his strange new companions.

“Leto?”

Leto twitched and looked back at him. Well, actually, looked back at his neck. No eye contact. Right. This again. No eye contact, no emotion, no talking, - and oh, let's not forget his skill in decapitation. Anders swallowed. “I um - you're injured?”

Leto blinked, one of his eyebrows twinged a bit. “It is nothing.”

Anders fell into step beside him and flashed him a smile. “C'mon, I'm rather adept in healing magic. It will only take a moment...” He reached out a hand and hovered it over the gash he had felt on the elf's forearm. Warm magic tinged his fingertips as he engulfed the arm. Biting his lip, he concentrated on repairing the skin and easing the pain. When he finished he looked up and was pleased to see Leto meet his eyes.  
  
“See?” He laughed slightly, a little nervous. “I'd like to think I made some sort of contribution...” Very odd day this was becoming. Memory loss, dead bodies, battles to contribute to as they fought for their lives.

Leto had already looked away, his eyes on Hawke's feet as they walked.

As they stepped out of the building, the first thought that went through Anders' head was of how oddly sunny it was.

Not only was it sunny, but _hot_. Blinking the brightness from his eyes, Anders gazed at the what was...Lake Calenhad? No, he knew that lake. Knew it very well in fact. (having swam a decent length of it in a previous escape attempt) Boats bobbed in the water, soft gongs sounded in the distance alongside the squawking of birds.

This was...? But, it couldn't be - could it?

“Is that the _ocean?_ ” Hawke asked incredulously.

Carver shook his head frantically. “But, Lothering isn't anywhere near the ocean!”

“Perhaps this is Highever? Or maybe Denerim?” Anders offered. Maker, it was hot out. He turned to Hawke suddenly, realizing. “Wait, they attacked us for a reason, remember? They knew your name. Called you - “

“Ferelden.” Hawke finished for him slowly. “And they had accents...They sounded Northern.”

Carver pointed at Leto. “So does he.” His eyes flashed with mistrust. “We're all from Ferelden.” He said, indicating the humans. “Where are you from?”

Hawke nodded though he still seemed a bit irritated with his brother. “Leto. Were you in Ferelden? Before you - before _we_ ended up in that building?”

Leto shook his head. “No. I...” Anders could see that he was struggling with something within himself, and they waited silently until he finally continued. “I was in Tevinter.”

Carver and Hawke exchanged dark look. Anders looked around the area with a completely new outlook. “We...We could be in the _Tevinter Imperium_?”

“No, I don't think so...” Hawke murmured thoughtfully. “Those men that attacked us. They were not Tevinter, were they?”

“I do not believe so, no.” Leto offered after a beat.

“Brilliant.” Carver said scathingly. “Where in the blazes are we!?”

Hawke smiled wearily. “Perhaps we should just, _ask_ someone?”

Anders snorted. “Yes, that will go over well. Excuse me, Messere? Where in Thedas are we? Oh, and by the way, we would appreciate it if you don't try to _kill us?”_

“They wanted to kill _me.”_ Hawke pointed out. “They were very specific. Called me someone's 'bitch'.” He added sardonically. “ 'A' – something. Ath...Ather...”

“Athenril.”

Anders looked at Leto in surprise. “Very observant, our silent warrior.” His voice was light and teasing as it often was, and Leto did not respond.

Hawke nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Athenril. Perhaps we should find this Athenril, they may have answers for us.”

Carver face was sour. “This is ridiculous! This entire situation. Nothing makes any _sense!”_

“Well, standing around complaining about it isn't going to get us anywhere.” Anders pointed out wryly.

Carver scowled at him.

“Are you lost?”

They all jumped, even Leto. The warrior's hand had instantly gone to the sword hilt at his back.

“Yes!” Anders said gratefully turning to the elven woman that had addressed them. Hawke kicked him. “I – I mean, no.” He relinquished lamely. “Or, maybe?” He looked at the others apologetically. He was well aware he had a big mouth, they could stop glaring at him any time.

The woman was severe, but did not appear to be unkind. She was older, though not elderly. And so far, not exactly trying to kill them.

Her brown eyes moved over the four of them in an attentive way that made Anders feel younger than he was. “If you're trying to find your way to Lowtown, you can leave the docks by following any of the stair cases.” She indicated one not far from where they stood. “Just make sure to go _up_. Going down will take you to Darktown.”

Lowtown. Darktown. Not very familiar. (Or original for that matter.)

Hawke and Carver seemed to disagree. Anders had seen their eyes widen at one and other in a way that suggested they now knew exactly where they were.

“Kirkwall?” Carver said softly to his brother. “This is Kirkwall?”  
  
The woman had heard, and she looked at them strangely. “Why, yes. I take it you just came in?” She indicated the many boats that lined the harbor.  
  
“Yes!” Hawke recovered the swiftest. “From...Ferelden.”

The woman nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. More from Ferelden. Though I hear things over there are recovering nicely under your new King, are they not? What brings you to the Free Marches?”

_New King. Free Marches._

Anders had felt Leto's sharp intake of breath rather than heard it. He looked at the elf, but his face unsurprisingly gave nothing away.

“We're here for work.” Hawke supplied with a smooth smile. Anders had to admire the other mage's tact. “We have family here, in Kirkwall.” He continued, to Anders' surprise. After thanking the woman for her direction, Hawke indicated they follow him to the stairs that she had pointed out for them.

“Is that true?” Anders asked as they walked up the stairs – apparently toward 'Lowtown'. “You two have family here?”

Carver nodded. “Our mother is from Kirkwall. We have...” His eyebrows drew together slowly. “We _had_ grandparents.” They reached the top and kept walking, no clear destination.

“We have an uncle here.” Hawke added. “I think his name is Gamlen.”

“Right.” Carver agreed after a moment. “Mother doesn't talk about Kirkwall much.”

Anders took in the dry, hot, questionable smelling surroundings, and the even more questionably built structures. “Really? Kirkwall seems lovely.”

Hawke chuckled. “Home away from home.”

Anders shook his head. “For the Hawke brothers maybe.” He motioned between himself and Leto. “Not us. Why are _we_ here?”

“Just because we have distant relatives here doesn't mean we're here for any actual reason.” Carver said defensively. “Our family is in Ferelden. Mother and Father. Bethany.”

Hawke nodded in agreement. “We need answers. We need to find _why_ none of us can remember - anything that makes sense.”

“And what was that about Ferelden having a new king?” Anders asked. “Did I miss something in the Tower? Because we're pretty big on gossip there, so...”

Hawke shook his head. “No idea. Not that I've heard.”

“Hawke!”

They all turned at once. Leto once again raising his hand rapidly to his sword.

Another elven woman approached them, though this woman clearly knew Hawke. And from the look on his face, he clearly did _not_ know her.

“I – Yes?” Hawke asked, failing at his usual articulation.

“Varric was looking for you, he - “ She stopped and tilted her head slightly, her eyes were round and a pretty, earthy green. “You look...a little different. Did you do something with your hair?” Her pretty eyes moved passed Hawke to the rest of them. “Anders! You look so well rested - " She frowned and seemed to squint. “Carver, is that you?”

Carver tried to scowl but seemed to fail, his cheeks growing a bit pink.

Anders was still stuck on 'well rested' bit. Was that some sort of euphemism? Better yet, how did she know his name as well?

“I'm sorry, we're having a little trouble.” Hawke admitted. “A memory lapse, it would appear.” The elf's eyes grew impossibly larger at his words.

“Who are you, exactly?"

 


	4. The Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for kudos, follows, and comments! It's super inspiring!

\---

 

“Who – Who am I?” The elf squeaked. Her voice was sweet and accented. “Hawke you...you're quite serious? You do not know who I am?”

Hawke shook his head, apologetic. “Should I?”

She looked past him to the the blonde mage. “Anders, what has happened? Is it magic related? Did it also shrink Carver?“ Her eyes moved to Leto, and her soft brow furrowed as Leto shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “...by the Creators, is that _Fenris_?”

_Fenris?_

Anders' brows shot up and he spread his hands in front of him, smiling. “Oh no, don't look at me! I have no idea what 'shrank' Carver, or who the Void this 'Fenris' is.” Leto could see that the mage was amused. How can he possibly find this situation amusing? In fact, he seemed to find _everything_ amusing.

The woman looked taken aback. “You too? My, this is...this is not good.”

Hawke cleared his throat. “Care to perhaps elaborate, serah? How do we know you?”

The woman giggled. “Oh, Hawke, don't call me serah. How silly. Merrill is fine, of course.”

Hawke blinked. “Er, right. Merrill. Nice to meet you...again?”

She smacked her hands together. “Oh! Right! We don't know each other anymore.” She nodded to them. “I'm Merrill.”

Anders laughed, evidently finding her very entertaining. Carver was regarding her with a mix of unbelieving exasperation and...something Leto could not place.

Hawke nodded emphatically. “Yes. Merrill. You know us, we don't know you. How do we _know_ you? And why are we in Kirkwall?” His voice was slow and patient.

Leto doubted very much he actually knew any of these people. _Fenris._ Perhaps they were mistaking him for a different slave; it was not uncommon. Though with the continued familiar way they were addressing him he was beginning to believe that Southerners were unaccustomed to slaves in general. It unnerved him.

Merrill shook her head quickly. “No, no. I should not try explaining anything. Knowing me, I'll just - confuse everyone further.”

Leto did not doubt that.

“Varric will know what to do.” She said, nodding to herself and using the name she had thrown out when first greeting Hawke. “He is very good with words.”

“I take it 'Varric' is someone else that knows us? That we ought to know?” Hawke murmured with a rub of his temples.

“Oh, yes! Varric is your best friend. At least, I'm sure he is. Or perhaps that is Isabela...” She had started walking down the streets of Lowtown in the opposite direction of them without any further explanation.

Leto noted the gilded staff strapped to her back.

_Mage._

Hawke threw them a look before shrugging, turning to follow her.

After walking for a short distance, Merrill paused. She looked around, looking suddenly unsure. “Oh dear.”

“Yes?” Hawke asked, his patient voice nearly faltering.

“I believe...I am lost.”

“ _What?”_ All that seemingly endless patience was gone from the young mage's voice now. “Lost? Don't you _live_ here?”

Merrill made a face. “Well, you all live here too!” She said defensively. “And...I'm not good with direction.”  
  
The blonde mage had the audacity to _laugh_ again. “You're joking!” He said. “Oh, this is just brilliant.”

Leto did not agree, his own patience having worn thin well before they had encountered this Dalish mage. He had a quickly mounting sense of dread set deep in his chest, his heart rate spiking and slowing sporadically. Outwardly he knew he did not appear so, though this was expected. Necessary.

Master would not be pleased with him. He would be angry. _Furious._

Leto's hands formed fists momentarily that dug the sharp points of his gauntlets into his palm before relaxing them again. He would not lose his head. He must concentrate. She had just said that they lived here. In Kirkwall, in the _Free Marches._ How long had he been out of Tevinter? Or perhaps, it all came down to a mistaken identity.

He felt those golden eyes on him _again._ He did not meet them with his own, but shifted his feet. _Fasta vaas_. The mage Anders had continued to attempt engaging him, and he was unsure of how to respond. Leto did not have _conversation._ Especially not with free human mages. The entire experience had been so...abnormal.

“What do you normally do when you get lost?” He heard Hawke ask warily.

“Well, I...I just keep walking around.” She confessed. “I eventually find my way back to the Alienage. Or, rather, someone that I know that can show me the way.” She indicated in their direction. “Each one you of has before, actually.”

Leto saw Hawke and Anders exchange looks of apprehension. “Right.” Anders said slowly. “So we just...start walking around? And hope to Andraste's sacred knickers we come across someone that you know?”  
  
Merrill paused, face thoughtful.

They waited.

“Were...Andraste's knickers really sacred?”

“Are you joking?!” Hawke exclaimed over the various noises of exasperation Anders and Carver had made. He dragged his hand slowly from his forehead to his scruffy chin. When he looked up he wore a strained smile. “You really are something else, Merrill.”

“Oh, dear. I've upset you, haven't I?” She asked, her great eyes searching each of their faces guiltily.  
  
Hawke shook his head. “No. No, it's – fine. Let's just...” He indicated in front of them. “Find 'Varric'?”

It did not take long for Hawke to retake the lead.

Merrill seemed completely unaware when she began walking into buildings, as if she was unused to the idea of walls and streets. She had led them straight into some human's home – and after a few shouts and hurried apologies, they had been rushed back out onto the streets of Lowtown.

“I swear the Hanged Man is around here somewhere.” Merrill kept assuring them from behind Hawke as they wove their way through the labyrinth of poorly constructed buildings and shanty framework that was Lowtown.

“And _I_ swear we've passed that classy gentleman at _least_ two times.” Anders remarked with false sincerity, indicating a filthy human man strewn on what Leto assumed had previously been a blanket.

Leto could see that Anders and Carver were becoming exhausted as the afternoon wore on. Hawke was as well, but he exuded an unrelenting air of determination as he led them.

Hawke stopped, and they all followed suit. He pointed to a massive scarecrow looking figure, hanging from a rusty pike by what appeared to be its ankle.

“The 'Hanged Man'?” Hawke asked, turning to Merrill.

“Oh! You found it!” She sighed, relieved. “Thank the Creators _._ ”

Anders laughed breathlessly and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Merrill, you are so many kinds of adorable and insane, you know that?”

Merrill's eyes widened and her cheeks colored. “I – Thank you, Anders. Or, at least I think thank you...” Her brows pinched together again, perplexed.

“Let's just get inside,” Carver said roughly. “I'm going to collapse.”

Anders nodded in agreement. “Maker, I haven't been this hungry since my last escape had me stealing baked goods from unsuspecting window seals.” He said with that half smile of his.

“There is food inside.” Merrill promised, leading them through the russet-rusted iron doors. The inside matched much of what Leto had come to expect of Lowtown after their little trek. Stone, dust, barrels, spikes. The dubiously eroding framework that held the building together.

A few patrons had glanced up at their entrance. Leto noticed that their eyes were drawn to Hawke, and a man of debatable continence had squinted and rubbed his eyes as if he were having trouble focusing.

Merrill indicated to an empty table. “Go ahead and rest right here, I will go grab Varric. He can...straighten things out.” She swallowed and added more softly. “I hope.” She darted down a hall and disappeared.

Anders collapsed without pause into a wooden chair at the table that Merrill had indicated. A low satisfied moan slipped from his mouth. “Maker's breath, finally...” Carver followed suit, albeit far less dramatically.

Leto was surprised when he saw a look of awe on Hawke's face. The mage had stayed standing and was searching through a pouch he had unstrapped from his body.

“Carver - look at _this._ ” Hawke almost whispered. Anders and Carver sat up and strained their necks to view what he held out to them.

His outstretched hands were piled with thick, gold coins, and a few dozen silver mixed in.

“I just wanted to know if we could afford a loaf of bread...” Hawke commented softly, thunderstruck.

“Loaf of bread!? You could buy the whole bloody tavern with that kind of coin!” Anders hissed in excitement.

“Where did you get that?” Carver demanded, both suspicious and conspiratorial.

Hawke shook his head. “No idea! It was just, in this bag...” He brandished the dark leather, which jangled with the telling sound of even more coins.

“Well, stop standing there and go get us some food!” Anders demanded with mock loftiness. “I volunteer you to foot the bill.” He made a show of running his hands through his own pockets. “I can't seem to find any coin on _me_. Just - ” He pulled up vials of bright liquids. “ - Potions. Hn .Not nearly as gratifying, that.”

Leto shifted his weight and watched them.

Hawke headed toward the bar with his handful of coins and a wide smile. Carver followed with a few requests on his lips, wearing a smile that mirrored his brother's.

There was a moment of silence at the table, though the tavern remained boisterous around them.

Leto felt Anders' eyes on him, and reluctantly looked up. The mage looked tired, but as always appeared rather genial.

“Leto, why in Andraste's name are you still standing? And with that great sword strapped to your back...And you're not even wearing shoes! Please, sit. My feet and back ache just looking at you.”  
  
Leto stiffened at the sound of his name. It took him a moment to process the mage's words before he cleared his unused throat and responded. “I can stand.”

Anders shook his golden head. “I didn't ask if you _could_.” He pointed out. “I asked _why._ You must be tired.”

Leto's eyebrows twitched. The mage showing interest in his body's physical state was disconcerting. “I am fine.” He replied shortly.

Anders snorted. “If this is some noble show of your outstanding fortitude, I think I speak for all of our unfortunate group when I say we've already been impressed.” He retorted lightly, nodding at a chair. “Just, sit down, will you?”

Leto firmly remained where he stood. His eyes darting between the mage's golden-brown eyes and the floor. Why did he insist on making him uncomfortable? Leto was not permitted to sit at a table of free men. Was it somehow possible that this mage was unaware of such customs?

Leto shook his head slowly. _Southerners._ “I will stand.” He stated simply. Though he was uncomfortable with the act of disobedience. He shifted his weight again.

The blighted mage opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when Hawke and Carver returned holding tankards, bread, and wooden bowls filled with various meats and cheeses.

Leto felt his stomach growl.

Carver and Anders began to tear into the food ravenously. Hawke gulped a tankard of amber liquid down in one swallow. He choked and coughed as he slammed it down on the table with a small laugh. “Maker, that's a good way to end this insane day...”

After a moment, Hawke glanced at Leto with a frown. “Leto, what are you - “

Anders interrupted. “Don't bother. He won't sit down.” He grinned at Leto. “Too proud to sit with us lowly mages.”

Leto nearly scowled. What a ridiculous statement. He had little knowledge of the South, but he had a hard time imagining those with magic were considered 'lowly'.

“I'm not a mage.” Carver pointed out between mouthfuls. Hawke had responded with playful jibe, but Leto didn't hear.

“Here,” Anders held a tear of bread out to Leto. “You may be too proud to rest, but you really should _eat_ something. I can hear your belly snarling from here.”

Leto's face warmed in embarrassment. He quickly took the bread and shook off the feeling. He inwardly scolded himself. He could not be embarrassed by such an insignificant comment. Taking a tentative bite of the bread, he swallowed the sustenance hastily down to recover energy, and pointedly ignored the blonde mage's knowing look.

“Andraste's great flaming ass! Daisy! You weren't shitting me...!”

The group looked up to see Merrill standing behind the charismatic-looking dwarf that had brazenly spoken over the crowd.

Hawke smiled. “Varric, I presume?”

Varric gave a short laugh empty of much humor. “Daisy didn't mention the age difference.”

Hawke frowned, as confused by the statement as Carver and Anders appeared.

“Oh, have their ages been altered? I really am bad at telling with humans...And Fenris – well. He looks so different, I must not have noticed. I suppose that _does_ explain why Carver has gotten so small!” Merrill babbled as she followed Varric to the table.

Carver made a face, his indignant scowl stunted somewhat by his full mouth.

The dwarf took a seat across from Hawke and reached out to grab a full tankard for himself. He smirked and shook his head. “It _always_ happens to you, Hawke. Don't you ever just wake up and think 'Hey! I think I'll spend a quiet _normal_ evening indoors.'?“

Hawke did not seem to know how to respond.

Carver spoke up between his mouthfuls of bread and cheese. “Aren't you supposed to be able to tell us what's going on?”

Varric grunted as he downed the tankard's liquid contents. “There's only one problem, Junior. I have no idea what's going on here, either. “

“Let's just...take this one step at a time.” Hawke said after a pause. “We're in Kirkwall, right?”

Varric chuckled. “Last I checked.”

Hawke nodded. “All right, but _why?_ How? None of us –” He gestured between himself, Carver, Anders and Leto. “ – were in Kirkwall at the start of the day.”

“See,” Varric said slowly. “That's where you're wrong.”

No one spoke. The only sound from their table was Carver's chewing. Evidently the boy's hunger exceeded their circumstance.

“Then we're back to the memory thing, again?” Anders spoke up after a beat. “And er, some sort of 'age difference', I take it?” He motioned to Carver with his thumb.

“Got it, Blondie.” Varric said with a nod of his head. “You got any more of this?” He lifted his empty tankard. “I have a feeling I'm going to need to be a lot less sober to finish this conversation.”

Anders blinked, mouthing 'Blondie?' to himself.

Hawke shoved a full cup the dwarf's way. “Age difference?” He inquired as Varric lifted it to his mouth, downing it rapidly.

“How about we start with you four.” Varric replied. “When did things stop making sense?”

Hawke recounted their day from the moment they had awoken in an unfamiliar setting, only stopping when Anders or Carver chimed in with a few iterations, and when the dwarf had paused them all to make a quick trip to the bar for more alcohol. Leto remained silent, listening.

“My, this sounds like one of Isabela's stories.” Merrill said when they had finished. “Where she wakes up with no memories of her day and missing clothes.”

Anders snorted. “Sounds like this 'Isabela' and I would get on.”

Hawke waved his hand. “Let's not get off subject. And unless your dear friend Isabela has a hangover cure for whatever it is that has happened to us, I don't think– “

“You know, sweet thing - “

Hawke jumped, as did Carver. Leto's hand flew to his sword hilt.

A human woman he had not heard approach them was standing less than a yard to his left. How long had she stood there, unnoticed? Leto was not often taken by surprise physically, and viewed her with inward suspicion. He noted that she had two blades sheathed at her back.

“ - I really think you could use all the help you can get, given your situation.” Her tawny eyes bore into Hawke.

“Isabela! We were just talking about you.” Merrill said unnecessarily.

“I was just about to ask you your thoughts on this, Rivaini.” Varric murmured, giving her a meaningful look.

The dwarf had known she was there. Leto's hand dropped from the hilt of his sword.

The woman's eyes did not leave Hawke when she replied. “Not too many at the moment, Varric. Still trying to process the 'our men becoming boys' bit.”

Anders frowned. “Boys is a bit much, don't you think? We're not _that_ young!”

“Carver is so much smaller, though.” Merrill put in. “Like I said, I'm really not good with human ages, but he does not look like a man.”

Carver was nursing a second tankard of the amber liquid. “Enough with the comments on my size, if you please!” He grumbled, his already red cheeks flushing deeper.

“Carver is fourteen.” Hawke said, finding his voice again. He seemed put off by the woman's gaze. “How old do...do you know him as?”

Varric shrugged. “Must be somewhere in his early twenties. Twenty-two, twenty-three. Or – “ He glanced at Carver. “ – he _was._ ”

Well this was getting them no where. Leto shifted his weight again, impatient. Everything they were saying was complete nonsense.

“Twenty?” Hawke said, his tone dubious. “That can't be right – _I'm_ not even in my twenties yet.”

Isabela swore under her breath. “That's it. I need alcohol. _Now.”_

“I am!” Anders offered in a helpful tone. "I'd say that counts as a _man._ ”

Hawke made a face. “Well, I'm _nearly_ to my twenties..." His voice was almost petulant.

Leto wanted to scoff, but remained impassive. Ridiculous.

“Hey, Leto?”

Leto suppressed his grimace as he glanced toward the table, eyes stopping on the mage's hands. “Yes?”

Merrill turned to Varric and whispered, “Why do they keep calling Fenris, 'Leto'?” and Hawke gave them a look before glancing back to Anders to hear what he had to say.

“How old are you, then?”

Leto blinked. “I do not know my age.” He replied after a silent stretch. “It is not something found to be useful to someone like me.”

“Andraste's tits.” Isabela murmured. “ _Alcohol_ , Varric.” She quickly walked to the table and yanked the tankard from in front of the dwarf. He did not protest. Leto felt his eyes on him as well.

“Someone like you?” Anders persisted. “That's not _ominous_ or anything.”

Everything a joke.

Leto glanced at his own feet, surprising himself by offering more. “Yes. Someone like me. A _slave._ ” His voice was flat. These Southerners clearly needed reminding of his position in life. “Slaves do not keep track of their years.”

His words were met with silence from the group. And after that silence had stretched too long, he glanced up.

Anders and Hawke were wearing expressions of matching shock and...disgust.

Ah. So that explained why it was they treated him with such familiarity.

They thought that he was something he was not...

_Free._

Leto lowered his eyes back to the floor.


	5. Down the Line

\- - -

“ _Yes. Someone like me. A_ slave. _”_

A slave.

Anders was for once, at a loss for what to say. He knew his mouth was hanging open a bit, and that he must look foolish; but he was finding it difficult to move the muscles on his face.

His mind quickly reviewed the day that he, Hawke, and Carver had just rehashed moments before with a new perspective. The lack of emotion, the inability to keep eye contact, the man's seeming refusal to carry on a conversation...

“ _I was in Tevinter.”_

Repulsion washed over him at the thought. “Maker's breath.” He heard himself murmur, breaking from his own trance.

Hawke leaned back in his chair, aghast. “Wait, _what?”_

Leto's eyes were on the ground again. He did not offer Hawke a reply.

Varric sighed after an awkward lull. “Alright, boys. Let's just, go over how we know you. Now - as adults.”

Anders could not find it in him at that moment to contradict their status as not 'adults'.

“ 'Leto' is it?” The dwarf asked.

“Yes?” Leto redistributed his weight from one leg to the other. Anders had noticed that the elf did this every time eyes were on him.

“We know you by the name Fenris.”

Leto's brow twitched. “You are mistaken.”

Merrill piped up. “Oh, no! We're quiet certain.”

Varric had paused again, seemingly reviewing his words before he finally spoke. “We also know you as a free man.”

Leto's green eyes snapped up, and that blank mask of his nearly faltered. “You are _mistaken_ .” He repeated, his low voice losing the neutral tone and taking on an almost harsh air. “I am not your Fenris. Nor am I in any way – _Liberati.”_

“Well, you're half right.” Isabela put in, forgoing a refill of her tankard for the pitcher itself. “Certainly no Liberati, our Fenris.”

“Liber...ati?” Carver mumbled, interrupting the growing tension with a quizzical look. How many glasses had the boy had?

“Liberati are legally emancipated slaves in the Tevinter Imperium.” Anders informed the boy.  
  
Leto nodded slowly. “Yes...”

Isabela nodded as well. “Precisely. Fenris, was never legally," she waved her hand, “anything at all.”

Silence.

Anders fidgeted, uncomfortable with the quiet. “So, then...'Fenris' is...”

“A fugitive.” Varric finished for him. “But, a free man none the less.”

Leto grunted in a tone that might just be mistaken for a laugh if it were not so obviously unamused. “Then your Fenris is a fool.”

Anders frowned. How could the other man see freedom in such a way? Wasn't it a good thing, to learn that he may no longer be a slave? Not that Anders necessarily bought any of this...But, still. The very possibility...

The possibility that he _himself_ was free of the Circle, at last. That he lived here in Kirkwall, with a life of his own choosing, with people he considered his  _friends._

“And I am not him.” Leto repeated.

Varric held his hands up in defeat. “Alright, Broody. Have it your own way. Let's just say you don't have to worry about taking any orders from _us.”_ He indicated the group. “We're all equals, here.”

Leto said nothing, his usual impassive eyes giving away his obvious want to deny the dwarf's words.

“He's right, Leto,” Hawke affirmed. “In Ferelden we don't view any man or woman as property.” Anders saw Isabela smile slightly behind her pitcher.

Carver glanced at his brother and nodded, though he appeared to be drifting a bit. “Slavery'ss..nug...sshit.”

Anders chuckled. He wagered by the boy's slurs that he was not often allowed to indulge so heavily in alcohol.

Leto clenched and unclenched his fists, remaining silent. His green eyes resolutely staring at the ground. Anders could practically feel waves of tension radiating from his body. Anders motioned to the seat next to him. “You should really sit down.”

Leto did not respond, or move for that matter.

After a beat of silence Anders gave up, leaving the elf to process what was clearly a complicated revelation. He turned to Varric, grinning. “Alright then, me next.” He swept his hands up in a grand gesture. “Tell me my future, dwarf!”

Varric pulled his eyes from Leto to regard Anders with amusement. “Well, Blondie. Your story really is a rather interesting tale.”

Anders brows raised. He truly expected no less of himself.

“You came to Kirkwall from Amaranthine,” Varric began.

Anders' brows drew together slightly. _Amaranthine?_

“ - after leaving your life as a Grey Warden behind to pursue a uh, well, _ambitious_ dream.”

_Grey Warden?!_

Anders laughed then. He laughed hard. “Maker, that is – that is _ridiculous!”_ He shook his head, voice shaking with what he hoped was still laughter. “Me?! A _Grey Warden?_ ” He looked round at the others. “Can you even imagine?!”

Isabela snorted a laugh of her own.

Varric was smiling. “Yes, you. Though, not anymore. As I said, you left that life behind when you came to Kirkwall.”

Anders nodded, greatly entertained. “Right. For my 'new' dream. Tell me, after having rid Thedas of darkspawn, what were the mighty Anders' grand new plans?”

“You live underground in Kirkwall's sewers," Isabela put in with obvious mirth, "Healing the poor for free."

Anders smile faltered. “I – what?” He looked around. “Is she joking?”

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “'Fraid not, Blondie. That's our renegade apostate, living for the poor and downtrodden. All the while planning and scheming to take down the Templar Order and freeing all mages from the oppression of the Circle.”

Anders eyebrows climbed impossibly higher. “That – Maker, I do? I didn't even know I cared that much...” Did his voice somehow get higher? He swallowed thickly and looked around at the others, gaze stopping on Leto.

He was suddenly much more sympathetic to the warrior's current state of mind. “This is mad, isn't it?”

Leto barely acknowledged him with a glance. Anders was unsure if he had even heard them talking.

Hawke cleared his throat, cutting in before Anders could ask any more questions. “And – us?” He appeared apprehensive. Carver's head was pitched forward on a loaf of bread, asleep and oblivious.

Varric and Isabela exchanged a long look. Anders caught the quick glance the dwarf shot his way, as if there was – impossibly – _more_ to his new life that had went unsaid. Varric apparently thought better of it and he turned his attention to Hawke, face somber.

“Hawke, well...” Varric rubbed his chin. “Let's start with the Fifth Blight.”

Anders, Leto, and Hawke all looked to the dwarf with varying degrees of shock. The _Fifth Blight?_

“It began in Ferelden, the year 9:30 Dragon.”

9:30 Dragon. That was in only three years – Or, wait. No, it wasn't. Because this was...

“What year is it 'now'?” Anders interrupted before the dwarf could continue.

“9:34 Dragon, sweetness.” Isabela supplied.

9:34 Dragon. So, a Blight had come and gone in less than four years? With Anders himself a Grey Warden? Not bloody likely.

“This is...mad...” Anders repeated weakly. When he had woke up to a charming kick to the head that morning the year had been 9:27 Dragon. Perhaps it had been one kick too many, then? That was it, wasn't it? The Templar's had finally driven him to madness. Simple enough explanation.

Varric continued, “Lothering was at the center of it. It was...overrun. With darkspawn.” Hawke stared mutely at the dwarf, his face blank. “The Hawke family fled to Kirkwall, where your mother Leandra had – “

“Family.” Hawke finished for him faintly. Carver began to emit a gentle snoring sound.

“Oh, Carver fell asleep on the bread,” Merrill said with a small smile. “We should probably get him to bed.”

Hawke seemed dazed, but bent his head in agreement. “Yes, bed...” He looked between Varric and Isabela. “We – have beds, don't we? A home?”

“Of course you do!” Anders assured him confidently. “Your pockets are bulging with gold! You no doubt live in a sparkling mansion.” He received a nod from Varric in confirmation. “Brilliant. And I get to go 'home' to a hole in the ground...” Just his luck. Ah, well. Freedom was freedom. Even if freedom was an underground hovel. Though, he was expecting that familiar kick to the head any moment now.

“I don't think so, Anders.” Isabela said and Anders found that he rather enjoyed hearing his name in her sultry voice. “We can't send you to Darktown like this.”

Varric and Merrill seemed to agree. “We'll take all of you to the Amell mansion.” Varric affirmed. “Maybe if we're lucky the Maker is done showing his sense of humor and you'll all just wake up back to normal.”

\- - -

The trip from Lowtown to Hightown went shockingly enough, without incident.

Varric led the group, with Hawke at his side. Carver was dead to the world slung on his brother's back, face buried in the elder Hawke's shoulder. Anders could not make out their soft words, but Hawke appeared quite drained as he questioned the dwarf.

Anders had stayed toward the back, walking with Merrill and listening to her prattle on about small details about their lives in Kirkwall. Though, the Dalish elf seemed to find the strangest things significant, and it did not take him long to conclude that he was not actually going to learn much about anything of real importance. He did however learn that Merrill, the dear, was very fond of flowers and small animals.

All the same, he did enjoy the view.

Walking in front of him were Leto and Isabela. The somber warrior had surprisingly accompanied them with no protest, seemingly subdued. Anders was willing to bet several coins - that he knew his destitute future self did not possess - that Leto was as thoroughly convinced as he was that this was all an elaborate, bizarre dream. Isabela was speaking to him with an obvious disregard for the fact that their conversation was purely one-sided, even laughing at her own words. Anders had trouble deciding which backside to concentrate on.

As they climbed the many steps, he began to notice a clear shift in architecture, as well as people. Lowtown and Hightown were utterly different worlds. Ornate artistic fixtures and lush ivy replaced rusty spikes and dust, the ground below them shifted from tightly compacted dirt and sand to smoothly paved stone, soot and muck smeared elves and humans were soon no where to be found with the clean faces of well-fed humans and smartly dressed dwarven merchants in place of them. 

After seeing the dramatic differences between the two Kirkwall districts, Anders was hesitant to consider just what Darktown must be like, where he apparently lived. _Lived freely._ He reminded himself, smiling. His own man, for the first time in his life...

Void take it all, Darktown was probably beautiful.

\- - -

Varric had asked them to wait outside while he took a quick trip into the estate to prepare the residents.

Hawke carefully jostled his limp brother further up his back. “So, this is home...” Mindful of Carver, he tilted back to take in the full view of the impressively expansive mansion.

Anders whistled softly. “I had no idea you were such an affluent noble, Messere Hawke. And a _mage,_ at that? You must be the most charming apostate in all of Thedas.”

Isabela breathed a small laugh. “You can say that again, sweetness.”

“It's not _my_ estate!” Hawke protested. “It belonged to my grandparents. The Amell family.”

Amell. Anders knew an Amell. An apprentice in Kinloch Hold, younger than himself, but very talented. He absently wondered if there was any relation.

The door swung open and Varric waved them in.

The inside was just as lavish and opulent as the outside had promised. A massive mabari hound stood as they filed in, his stump of a tail wagging furiously. Merrill predictably settled in next to him, running her slender fingers over his short cropped brown fur.

“Oh, Maker's breath!”

A human woman with graying hair was standing at the foot of a set of stone steps, a pair of familiar blue eyes were fixed on the Hawke brothers.

“Mother,” Hawke's voice was relieved and his body seemed to sag slightly as if a crushing weight had been lessened. His dark brows drew down suddenly. “M-Mother? Are you okay?”

Leandra Hawke wiped at her face and laughed shakily. “Oh, don't mind me, dear. It was just a bit of a shock...” She quickly closed the distance between herself and her sons. She lifted her hands to Hawke's face and cupped his faintly stubbled cheeks. “Garrett, look at you...”

Hawke gave his mother a bewildered smile, searching her face in turn.

Turning away from the three Hawkes to give them privacy, Anders covered his mouth as he yawned widely and loudly, stretching his other arms over his head. “Mm...I'd say it's time for all the boys and girls to turn in for the night and wake up to a Templar boot to the head...” He leaned against the person next to him without much thought, his head resting on a warm, spikey shoulder.

The owner of said shoulder stiffened. Anders quickly straightened himself and glanced at Leto sheepishly. “Er, sorry.” He shrugged haplessly. “M'falling alseep standing, it would seem.”

Leto, shockingly enough, offered no comment. His green eyes already moving away from Anders.

“Keep your clothes on, Blondie. Bodahn's finding a place for you and Broody to sleep.”

Isabela motioned to Merrill. “I think it's time we take our leave, Kitten. I'll walk you home?” Merrill gave the mabari a few more strokes before following the beautiful woman back to the door. Isabela's eyes lingered a moment on the Hawke brothers walking up the stone steps before turning to wink at Anders and Leto. “Night, boys.”

Anders smirked and winked right back. “Night, _ladies.”_

Merrill giggled as she was led out of the estate, Anders catching her comment. “Anders is a bit different without justice.”

“Hush, Kitten. He – “ Isabela's words were silenced by the door swinging closed.

Anders squinted at the door, as if it somehow held answers for him. Different without what justice? _Huh._ He shrugged it off, chalking it up to the Dalish elf's confusing ramblings.

Varric left not long after, claiming he had a few contacts in mind that may be of some use for their 'situation'. Right. Whatever that meant...Situation indeed. He had promised to return to them with news the next day.

Anders stood alone in the foyer with Leto and the mabari, which had settled in between them. Anders eyed the dog dubiously. He really was more of a cat person...

The stretch of silence that followed made Anders uncomfortable. Unsurprisingly, he broke it.

“Hey, Leto.”

Leto shifted his weight as he had expected. “...Yes?”

Anders stifled a second yawn. “You think it's all just a dream, then?”

Leto glanced at him, not quite meeting his eyes. “What do you mean; 'a dream'?”

Anders gestured around them. “All of it. Today. Our lives here - Kirkwall.” His voice grew softer. “Our uh... our freedom.”

When Leto said nothing for at least two full minutes, Anders did not think he was going to reply. Then,

“Freedom for me is not a dream, Anders. Not a possibility.” The elf's rich voice was a near whisper. “I am not Fenris.”

Anders watched the other man closely, pleased to have elicited an actual response. Leto had lived his life up until the moment as someone's property, unable to make choices of his own. There had to be some small part of him that...wanted _more_ from life. “ But that's just it." Anders whispered back. "You _could_ be...”

Leto finally met his gaze, holding him there with searching green eyes for a few breathless beats. Anders fought back an embarrassing urge to reach out and run his fingers over the crease between the elf's brows.

“Messere Anders! Messre Fenris! I've arranged sleeping spaces for you just in here."

Anders found his breath again when Leto looked away to the two dwarves that waited in the entryway of a room that the elder of two men was motioning them to enter.

Maker, the man had him breathless with just eye contact...

Anders shook off any more thoughts of touching handsome green-eyed elves that he had no business touching, and led the way to the room they were being directed. It was narrow with a wall of bookshelves that Anders had no time to pay attention to, as he had eyes only for the heavy pile of blankets and pillows that made up two sleeping spaces on the floor.

So exhausted...

He quickly yanked the unfamiliar boots, feathered coat, and ill-fitting tunic from his body; settling them on the floor next his staff. Making his way to the closest jumble of plush warmth that made up the beds, he threw himself down with a groan. He yanked an impossibly soft blanket over his body and sighed gratefully.

“If you need anything at all, don't hesitate to let us know,” The elder dwarf said cheerfully as he led the younger from the room and shut the door.

Anders drifted for a few moments before he realized Leto had not moved. He peaked his eyes open.  “You can lay down, you know.”

Leto seemed to be debating with himself again. Anders waited. Watching him as drowsiness tugged at his eyelids, each blink becoming heavier than the last. “Leto...sleep.”

The elf removed the sword from his back and laid it down carefully. He fumbled with the gauntlets on his arms and the chest plate for a few minutes, likely unfamiliar with the straps and latches that held them into place. Anders let his eyes finally drift closed when he saw the lithe dark-haired figure climb into the other bed. 

_Grey Warden...Fifth Blight...Apostate..._

 Anders was asleep before his thoughts could form much coherence, taking to the Fade gladly. 


	6. Darktown

\- - -

Varania's voice called to him from behind, but Leto did not turn to her just yet. He watched his mother's hands; calloused and long-fingered, working the thick layer of dough spread over the wooden counter of the kitchen. His head just reaching high enough to watch. Others bustled around them, speaking quietly of the days work to be done; the Master was to have guests for the evening and there was much to prepare for.

His mother's hands were steady and rhythmic, well practiced in crafting breads and the rare confection. Leto could see the blossoming of purple and yellow bruises that painted their way from her wrists to her elbows.

It had been his fault...

Varania had told him not to, but he had not listened. Convinced that he would not be missed. That he could go unnoticed.

Sneaking across the grounds when the sun had set to watch the festival that was taking place after dark every night for seven days. Varania and him could hear the noises of crowds, laughter, and the loud blasting of magical energy outside. The changing lights sometimes reached the walls of their sleeping quarters by the barest parts.

He was only gone from the house for a few moments, just long enough to glimpse the _lights_ , the flash of colors, the smiling figures dancing. Just long enough for a rare smile of his own to pull at his lips.

Making his way back, he had made the mistake of tracking muddy footprints over the opulent, white stone that paved the Western courtyard; hoping to cut his time back to the mansion in half by taking the short-cut.

Bare feet. The feet of an elf. The feet of a slave.

Before he even learned that they had been found, his mother had taken responsibility. Taking with it, the punishment that should have been his. Leto was unsure how, but he was certain that Master had known it was him, and not his mother. He had made him watch as she was held down and beat.

He turned at his sister's third call.

Leto knew that he could never give his mother or Varania what he wished he could. He would do anything to see them happy, but he was not in the position to make wishes, to make promises.

His Master's property. An object. But...His mother and Varanaia were more than that. He _needed_ them to be more than that. If given the choice, he would give everything to see them as one of the faces in the crowd at that festival, smiling, showered with colorful light.

\---

Leto came awake with a practiced alertness, prepared to perform his morning training exercises and any other tasks he was ordered. He sat up quickly, unused to the soft warmth of the blankets and pillows that surrounded his body, or the prickle of sunlight over his skin. Shielding his eyes, he looked up to see the brightness pouring out from a window situated near the top of a high ceiling.

This was not his sleeping quarters.

_Yesterday...he was..._

Leto then noticed the form a few feet from him, sprawled out over their own make-shift bed. Blonde hair fanned out over the maroon pillows, face relaxed in sleep.

Anders.

_Kirkwall._

“ _Venhedis.”_ Leto swore, coming to his feet and throwing the blanket down. Waking up to another dream. Though this one was far less real than any fabrication of the Fade he had ever experienced.

For a long moment, he stood still. Unsure. No direction...

Leto had never in his life gone one morning without something to do; a chore, a task, a duty. Growing restless, he began to pace.

After a few strides, a brightness caught his eyes and brought his attention to the steel gauntlets he had discarded the night before. Sunlight reflecting in his eyes. Scooping the armor from the floor he went to work reattaching it, reversing the steps he had performed when he had removed it, until it held in place. The sword was last, its weight feeling reassuringly familiar in his hands. A small comfort. He swung it fluidly to his back.

“Maker, that _is_ impressive.”

Leto started, turning to see Anders sitting up, arms stretched over his head. His torso was bare, and Leto could see a path of golden hair tracing down his flat belly. The mages in Tevinter generally were not, in his experience, as athletically built...

Leto realized that he was staring, and moved his gaze back to the mage's face. “Impressive?”

Anders ran his forefinger and thumb over his sleepy eyes. “The uh – when you...with the sword?”

Leto blinked. “I..." He was unsure of how to respond. “I am...well trained.”

“Trained,” Anders looked thoughtful. He began pulling his clothes on in languid motions. Lazily. All the time in the world. “Why train a slave to fight?”

Odd questions. “I am a bodyguard. It is my purpose.”

Anders hauled himself up, grabbing his staff from the floor. He turned to Leto wearing a broad smile. “ _Was.”_

“I do not understand.”

“Your purpose,” Anders said cheerfully, looking around the room as if he had woken up in some sort of paradise. “Leto, _we're still here.”_

Leto stiffened, wanting to scowl at the mage. He was well aware that they were still 'here' – in Kirkwall.

“This isn't the Circle! I woke up, by _myself._ By _choice._ ” He looked positively giddy.

“I do not think one truly chooses to wake up.” Leto pointed out, irritated with where he was going with this.

“Yes, well...” Anders waved his hand. “That's not the point, is it? The point _is –_ no Circle! No _Templars!”_ He stepped around the blankets, closer to Leto. Too close. “Don't you understand? You don't _have_ to be a bodyguard anymore!”

Leto was scowling now. Not this again. “Anders. I am not – “

“Yes, yes, I know.” Anders interrupted. “You're not Fenris. You're Leto. That's all well and good. _But – “_

 _Fasta vaas._ Leto turned away before he could finish the thought.

The mage sighed. “All right well...What do you plan to do, exactly? It's been, what; seven years, hasn't it?”

Leto shook his head. “No. I do not...believe that is possible. Let us speak no more of this.” He could not entertain the idea of this being any sort of reality. His mother. Varania.

_Master Danarius._

“I have things I need to do.” Leto said more loudly than he intended, and mentally admonished himself. He must not lose his composure.

Anders stared. The mage was, of course, about to say more; but thankfully his mouth shut when the door was pulled open.

“There you are.” Hawke stood in the doorway, a smile on his face. Carver stood behind him, craning his neck to see into the room over his brother's shoulder.

“Miss me?” Anders asked with a returning smile of his own.

“Maybe,” Hawke answered cheekily. “Varric's here. Brought something he wants us to see.”

Leto was glad to be done with the exchange. He was unwilling to treat this situation with much merit, to give it any sense of reality. He would follow them for now, in more ways than one grateful to be given direction.

Varric waited for them at a desk near the stone steps. The dwarf was leafing through an array of papers covered in scrawls that were indecipherable to him. A heavily armed human woman with red hair stood at his back, muttering crossly, pointing out some documents with incredulity.

Isabela sat perched atop a massive chest, legs crossed, leaning forward to take in every word spoken between them. Her attention shifted to their group as they walked up, eyes on Hawke.

“By Andraste's grace,” A man's soft voice invoked. The speaker was a well-groomed human man with an immaculate set of white armor. Leto noted the splendid bow strapped to his back. “Anders, Fenris...”

Leto inwardly bristled at the use of the name, but did not correct him.

“That's Sebastian.” Hawke motioned to the archer.

“He's a prince.” Carver put in.

Anders gave him an obvious look up and down, causing the prince to shift uncomfortably. “I was not certain Varric was serious when he told me why he wanted me to join him here today. But, after seeing you four...” He shook his head. “Andraste guide you all.”

Varric chuckled, pocketing a few newly folded documents. “What did I say about questioning my word, Choir Boy?”

“Just him?” Isabela asked slyly. “I'm certain you've lied to everyone in this room at least once.”

Varric held a hand over his bared chest as if struck in the heart. “You wound me, Rivaini.”

“Varric, let's stay on subject, shall we?” The red-haired woman interjected.

“That's Aveline.” Hawke whispered.

“She's – “ Carver paused mid-whisper, brows knit in thought.

“A brutish ball crushing do-gooder with the manliest of hands?” Isabela sang with a cackle.

Anders bit his hand, muffling a laugh. Carver didn't bother with any muffling, and Hawke stepped on his brother's foot.

“Shut it, whore.” Aveline snapped.

“All right, kids. On subject.” Varric interjected. “We've managed to collect a few hints as to how it was you four ended up like this.”

“And a souvenir.” Isabela tapped the chest under her with a booted heel. “Found this in the warehouse you four described.” She raised a brow at them. “You boys left quite the trail of bodies behind you.”

Leto saw the Hawke brothers exchange looks.

“Hey, we only contributed three to that massacre,” Anders said with mock defensiveness, though Leto could see his unease at the memory. He recalled the blonde's apparent aversion to the carnage. Strange for a mage. He would not do well apprenticed in Tevinter if he could not overcome such things.

“As our _boys_ perhaps. But I know your handy work, sweetness.” She gave them an appraising nod. “That was our men.”

“That was _us?_ ” Anders practically squawked.

“We're a gruesome lot, aren't we?” Hawke asked with a look around.

“You have to be in Kirkwall. If you wanna get anything done, that is.” Varric replied with a knowing smirk. “Though, gruesome is a bit strong. I'd prefer – resourceful. Or maybe, creative.”  
  
“ _Yes_ , because nothing says 'creativity' like body parts.” Anders mumbled.

Varric walked over to the desk, grabbing a folded sheet of paper. “That 'souvenir' was what you were after, it would seem.” He handed the paper to Hawke. “A job you took.”

Hawke read the letter, perplexed. “I don't understand most of this. And why am I receiving letters? What is it exactly that I _do?”_

Carver was peeking around to read the letter as well. “Why not both of us? Why just _you?”_

Varric ignored their questions. “The one that sent the letter is the proprietor of a little known shop down in Darktown.”

Leto noticed Anders' interest.

“I think we ought to pay him a visit.” Aveline intoned meaningfully.

Sebastian motioned to where Isabela sat. “Don't we already have it, though? Whatever is in that chest?”

Isabela hopped off to slide the top of the chest open and swept her arm over it. “Empty I'm afraid.” She smirked at him. “Perhaps if we all get on our knees and pray to your crotch the next time we open it the boys will become men again?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

“Hang on, is that _Andraste_?” Anders was pointing at the prince's belt buckle.

“Enough,” Aveline barked. “Maker, can't you all pay attention long enough for us to get something done?”

“So, now we go to Darktown?” Hawke ventured, holding the letter up. “It says in the letter there are more chests.”

“Exactly,” Varric said. “Now we go to the Black Emporium.”

\---

Although not entirely. Varric himself had elected to stay back at the estate; claiming he had a few more contacts coming in with more information.

“I doubt this will be solved with a quick trip to the Emporium.” He had said as they set off. “That'll just get us in the right direction.” The dwarf had sent the prince Sebastian off to deliver a few papers to someplace called the 'Gallows'.

That left Aveline at the lead of their little expedition, and Isabela taking up the rear. Leto almost felt as though he and the other three were being guarded. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

“Can you all still...do damage?” Aveline asked from the front of their group, heading down the steps of Hightown. “Darktown is hardly the place to bring the unarmed.”

“We're armed,” Anders said with a sparkle of bright magical energy at his fingers. “Always armed. Part of the whole 'being a mage' bit.”

“And Carver?” Aveline continued. “Perhaps we should have left him at the estate.”

Carver bristled. “What of the elf? He's no mage. I'm just as capable.”

Leto said nothing.

“I think we're all certain enough that Fenris can take care of himself, markings or no.” Aveline said.

“His name is _Leto.”_

Seeking the source of the words, Leto's eyes stopping on where Anders walked. The mage gave him that lopsided smile of his.

Leto was...grateful. He felt himself offer a small smile in return.

“Anders, watch yourself!” Hawke called from in front of them.

The mage had tripped. Stumbling down a few steps before righting himself on his staff. “M'fine!” He assured them quickly. “Turned an ankle. Why does this city have so many blighted stairs, anyway?” He demanded, his cheeks oddly flushed. 

\---

The first thing Leto noticed about Darktown was the smell.

They had continued their descent past Lowtown until they had reached a flight of steps that led into the underground district. The air was thick, almost choking. It smelled of disease and waste.

Anders and Carver both began to cough faintly upon entering.

“Maker's balls.” Anders mumbled behind a hand he had raised to his mouth. “This is...”

“ _This,_ is Darktown.” Isabela said blithely. “The Undercity! Home of the criminals, the Carta, and the hopelessly poor.” She glanced back at Anders and winked. “Home sweet home, sweet thing.”

“D'you live down here, too?” Anders asked hopefully.

“No, not really my pace down here.” She answered with a shrug. “I prefer the fine upstanding folks at the Hanged Man. And the booze.”

Aveline's stance shifted suddenly, and she drew her blade. Leto immediately followed suit, eyes scanning ahead to see what had her on edge.  
  
“Healer!” A filthy elven woman stumbled toward them, stopping just at the tip of where Aveline's sword was raised “Healer, _please,_ it's my son. Your clinic has been closed for hours and we have no where else to turn!”

Everyone turned to look at Anders. Everyone except Carver, that is. He seemed to have missed something. “What's she on about?” He asked his brother.

Anders' brows were raised. “Oh, er – sorry? You want me to...to heal your son?” He looked helplessly between Aveline and Isabela. “That's what I do now, isn't it?”

Aveline sheathed her sword and nodded. “Yes, it is. But right now...”

The woman was bouncing a bit on her heels, clearly anxious. Desperate. “ _Please,”_ She begged again. “He is in great pain!”

Leto could see the mage's golden eyes softening. Anders looked at Aveline. “I-If there's any way I could...maybe help?”

Hawke nodded. He ignored any reaction Aveline or Isabela had and turned to the woman. “We will help your son.”

The woman's slight form shook with a relieved sob. “Oh, _thank you_!”

Isabela laughed. “Andraste's tits he's like twelve years old and he's still bossing us around.” Despite her words she did not seem at all perturbed by it. Leto thought she almost seemed pleased.

“Shut it.” Aveline sighed. “He's right, we should let Anders help...”

“Where is he? Your son?” Hawke asked, reaching out to steady the woman.

Leto watched them all silently. They treated him and that Dalish elf Merrill with...a degree of respect that he was unused to between humans and elves. And now here they were, helping an elven woman and her son without question. With real concern.

“I will have him brought to your clinic, Healer!” She pulled away from them, turning to hurry off into the streets of Darktown.

Aveline motioned for them to follow. “C'mon you lot. Let's get you to Anders' clinic.”


	7. No Place Like Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you so much for the comments, kudos, and follows!

\- - -

 

Anders surmised that he had perhaps feared the worst as he surveyed his future home. Darktown was horrendous, as he had expected; and his clinic was no Amell mansion, but...

It wasn't _completely_ terrible.

All right, so the cots that lined the space were crudely put together, and the smell inside was not much of an improvement from the outside. Still. There was an almost comforting feeling he felt as he took the surroundings in.

This was all _his_.

Those were his old rags. His smudged and cracked potion bottles. His poorly constructed desk and chair; complete with an empty upturned ink bottle and a feathered quill that suspiciously resembled the feathers in the pauldrons of the robes he wore. 

A hovel, yes. But it belonged to _Anders._ And no one could take that from him.

Isabela had plopped down on a cot and stretched herself out, looking every bit a comfortable feline. Aveline stood by the doors, eyes watchful. Leto seemed to follow her lead and chose to do the same.

Anders continued his own personal tour of the clinic, searching for anything familiar. Something to pull a sense of attachment, rather than a peek into a future he could not yet fathom.

He found an alcove at the back that was sectioned off with a carefully placed piece of cloth. When he pulled it back to reveal cramped sleeping quarters, he knew he had found just that.

His pillow...  
  
Anders smiled, reaching out to run his fingers over the embroidery. This must be his room. Well, not really a room. But it was clearly where he slept at the end of a long day playing the hero.

Hawke spoke behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. “It's uh, cozy.”

Anders glanced back at the other mage and smirked. “So nice of you to notice, Hawke. Say, don't you live in a _mansion?”_

Hawke's answering laugh was cut short when Aveline raised her voice. “Incoming, Anders.”

She had stepped back a few paces to admit the elven woman, who was now accompanied by an elderly human man. In their arms they held a young elven boy, and even from a distance Anders could make out the arrow shaft protruding from his chest.

This was not the type of minor Circle controlled wound he was used to dealing with. Anders swallowed.

They were quick to place the boy carefully on an empty cot.

The boy's mother scanned the clinic, finding him in the crowd. “Healer?”

For a moment, Anders stood frozen. Every pair of eyes was on him. Expectant. Maker, this was a lot of pressure. He swallowed again, throat dry. Why was it that he felt the sudden familiar inclination to run?

“Is he all right?” Carver asked with a pointed lack of actual concern.

“Anders,” Hawke prompted, his amber eyes confident.

 _In him?_ How could he possibly have confidence in him? Anders was no selfless hero. No valiant Grey Warden. He was _not_ –

The small form on the cot whimpered and squirmed.

Anders could see that the boy was shivering, a sign that there was an infection spreading...

Gripping his staff more tightly, Anders managed to find his legs and swiftly crossed the room in a few long strides. “How long ago did this happen?” He reached out to brush away the damp hair that clung to the young elf's moist forehead, feeling the heat of the fever that was ravaging his body. He did not have long left.

“Last night,” His mother readily replied. “He was caught in the crossfire. The Coterie - there was a raid on a shop not far from our home.” She shifted anxiously. “We managed to scrounge up a few healing potions, but...”

Anders did not bother asking who the 'Coterie' were. This boy had had an arrow shaft in his chest for _hours?_ He closed his eyes, casting his magic out. The arrow had punctured the boy's lung, his heart rate was uneven, and his body temperature was frighteningly high. His panting was wheezy, likely due to the fluid that had filled his chest cavity.

Anders' hands shook slightly. He did not know if he could save him.“I um - I'll need someone to pull the arrow out.”

“Hawke, hold him steady.” Aveline's voice said. The other mage came into view, placing his hands on the boy's thin shoulders. Anders could feel his eyes on him, but did not remove his own gaze from the spot the arrow was lodged. Aveline's freckled hands, divested of her armor, gingerly wrapped around the bolt.

When it was yanked from the boy's flesh Anders was ready with his magic. His eyes screwed shut, concentrating on the task of stopping the flow of blood and repairing the organ. The usual comforting warmth of the healing energy quickly turned to a smoldering heat, burning at the tips of his fingers.

The pure current of life he poured into the reconstruction of the lung rapidly ravaged his mana, and he bit back a small gasp. He grit his teeth, pushing past the prickle of pain that began to flare throughout his body as he strained to keep the steady flow of magic going.

He did not know how long he stood, his blood-soaked hands splayed over the boy's chest, funneling his own life into him. When he felt the fever break, he abruptly took a step back, swaying on his feet.

“I...have a headache.” He murmured, his voice sounding oddly muffled. The edges of his vision blurred.

“Anders? Are you all right?” He heard Hawke ask sharply.

His eyes were on the boy, who sat up gasping, clutching his chest. His mother had descended on him with a cry, carefully wrapping her arms around his slight body.

Anders smiled. He had done that, hadn't he?  _Huh_. Maybe there was some sense to his strange future after all...

Leto knelt beside him. Wait, when had he gotten on the floor?

“Anders?” The elf called his name in that low voice of his. Such a lovely voice. Deep and enticing.

 _Concentrate._ He admonished.

“M'fine...” He mumbled back nonsensically.

“We should lay him down.” He heard Aveline say. “Bring him over here.”

Anders was not sure where 'here' was. He attempted to stand back up. “No, I –” He slumped against someone. Someone rather pokey. He snorted a small laugh at the thought.

Sharp metal dug into his skin as he felt himself being hoisted off the ground. Was he being held like a fainting maiden? Anders shifted in the hold, attempting to protest. The arms tightened. He squinted his eyes open to scowl, but his brow faltered. Leto's neutral green eyes were trained ahead as he carried Anders to wherever the 'here' Aveline mentioned was.

Anders found himself torn between the utter embarrassment he felt about the situation and the enjoyment of feeling their bodies pressed together.

Leto set him down on a rather lumpy surface, and was gone from his field of view before Anders could say anything to him. Not that he could really talk with much coherency. Maker, that had been draining...

“Here,” Hawke was next to him then. Anders pulled himself up on one of his elbows and grabbed the lyrium potion that the other mage held out to him, downing it earnestly. Twin pools of hot and cold energy tickled over Anders' nerves, and he breathed a placated sigh at the rush of returning mana. The dizziness subsided.

“You going to be okay, Anders?” Hawke asked with a glance back at where Aveline stood and Isabela lay a little ways behind her.

“ _Yes,_ ” Anders insisted. “Really.” He added at the doubtful look Hawke exchanged with his brother. “I'm more shaken than anything else. I've healed before, of course. But I've never – “ Anders shook his head, thoughtful. "Ive never done anything like _that._ " He admitted, feeling both pleased with himself and slightly in awe.

If the other mages at Kinlock Hold could see him now. An apostate pulling the underpriveleged from the brink of death with his impressive magical skill. Cedric and Jowan would be jealous, he had no doubt.

Anders' face fell a fraction.

He would likely never see those two again, would he? Any of them, actually. Niall, Finn, Petra, Godwin. The countless apprentices and mages; even the senior enchanters. The fellow mages that had become the closest thing to family for him over the many years imprisoned together.

Well, not quite family.

It was unwise for a mage to become too attached to another within the Circle. What with harrowings, tranquility, demon possession, Templars; it often ended in heart ache and loss. Puts a bit of a damper on any long lasting friendships or love affairs.

_"Guard yourself against attachment, Anders. It may well be your undoing."_

Anders remembered these words and was startled by the sharp pang he felt at the memory of Karl whispering them against the skin of his neck. The two of them pressed together, hiding in a cramped space in a corner of the tower's library.

_Karl Thekla._

Anders pushed passed the brief, familiar pull of sorrow he experienced. Karl would be happy for him. Proud. He had finally escaped; becoming an apostate, as he had often declared he would.

But, Maker, he still missed that man so much...

Clearing his throat, Anders came to his feet. He had missed a few words spoken between Hawke and Aveline while he had been lost in his own thoughts, but he caught the end of the question the other mage had asked. Something about leaving Anders here to rest?

“I'm fine!” He insisted once again. “I'm an extremely powerful mage, you see.” He assured them loftily. “I can heal dozens upon dozens with the snap of my fingers.”

Aveline nodded, though he doubted very much that it was to agree with his grandstanding. “We're not letting any of you boys out of our sight. We don't need you getting lost in Kirkwall. Or killed.”

“Lady Man-Hands is right, I'm afraid.” Isabela hopped up from her spot on the cot opposite where Anders had been laid down. “Let's get to the Emporium before Varric thinks we've been done in by that golem of Xenon's.”

Anders was about to ask if she was in fact joking, but his attention was taken by the recovering elven boy. The coloring on his cheek had returned, and he was attempting to fend off his fretful hovering mother. Anders made his way back over to him just to be certain. Pulling at small threads of recovering magic, he encompassed the small form once again, briefly feeling for any signs of distress.

Anders let his hands drop and smiled down at the boy. “All clear.” He declared with a slightly self-satisfied smirk. “That was a close one, mate. Watch yourself next time?”

The young elf nodded earnestly. “I-I will, messere. Thank you.”

“We have heard that you do not accept payment, but would this perhaps be permitted?” The elderly human man that had accompanied the boy's mother held out an assortment of breads and dried meats wrapped carefully in an old cloth.

Anders blinked at them, a bit humbled. “Er, right. Thanks...” He reached out to take the food, but hesitated. He knew that the boy was malnourished...he needed to properly recuperate.

His hands curved up in a gesture of refusal. “You know what? That's all right. Keep the food for his recovery.” He indicated to the group of people that stood behind him. “I have rich friends, it would seem.” Anders heard Hawke and Isabela make noises of amusement.

“The young brash Anders still has a heart of gold after all,” Isabela announced with what was a decidedly taunting tone.

 _Heart of gold is a bit much._ Anders considered. _Idealistic, perhaps._ He had always held a soft spot for those of lesser fortune. Though his own well being generally came first...Or so he thought. His current living situation did beg to question his usual self-centered nature. Must be a Gray Warden thing.

Come to think of it, wasn't becoming a Gray Warden sort of a life-time commitment? He made a mental note to further interrogate Varric when he had the time.

“If you're done here Anders, it's best we get moving.” Aveline said, striding to the doors.

Anders hung at the back while everyone else emptied out to cast a final look around his future home. When he turned to follow, he was surprised to see that Leto was waiting for him, green eyes watchful.

“Stop looking at me like I'm going to faint.” Anders murmured, incredulous. “I'm perfectly capable.”

Leto did not reply, falling into step not quite beside him. His lips twitched though, and Anders took that to mean he was almost smiling.

Best the handsome sod not smile at him again. Tripping on those stairs had been rather embarrassing.

\- - -

As it turns out, Anders had been expecting the worst from the wrong location in Darktown. The Black Emporium was far more disturbing than he could possibly have predicted. The 'shop' was hidden away in the depths of Darktown, a thought that brought no amount of comfort to Anders in its proximity to his clinic.

Lanterns lit their path as the party made their way over a shabbily constructed wooden walk way that led to the Emporium's circular shaped interior. If he had not been keeping a look out, Anders might have missed the immense golem that stood resolutely immobile at the entrance.

Isabela had _not_ been joking.

Not that it mattered much. Despite the fact that Anders had never in his life seen a golem – an impressive sight indeed - it was not what he could not stop himself from staring at.

In the center of the room there was a single beam of light that lit up the gruesome figure sitting in what may have once been an ornate chair. At first glance it appeared to be a weeping corpse with a book propped on its tilted form, a few extra limbs sprouting haphazardly throughout its decaying body.

But then it spoke.

“Garrett Hawke.”

Anders had jumped. He could see Hawke stiffen in front of him, likely disturbed to have heard his name in that _voice._ Leto seemed almost restless next to him, his gaze trained on the golem.

“I trust you bring news...of my...artifacts...yes...?” The corpse's voice was a husky, low hiss; dropping and increasing in volume interchangeably with every few raspy words.

“Actually, yes. Sort of.” Hawke eventually said, finding his voice. “You are – Xenon? The Antiquarian?”

A fleeting moment of silence met his words. Then,

“ _Did you_ open _the chest?”_ Xenon hissed out with an obvious incredulity. “I was very specific within my correspondence, was I _not,_ Urchin?”

Who in the Void is Urchin?

Anders noticed Isabela glance back to the entrance. A young human boy stood silently opposite the golem. If he was 'Urchin' he offered no response to the proprietor.

The proprietor that was a talking corpse. Right. Evidently the Maker was playing an elaborate game of 'So you thought your life couldn't get any more bizarre?' with him.

“It would seem that I... _may_ have opened the chest,” Hawke said, his voice slowing to a tone of appeasement.

“Xenon.” Aveline spoke up. “What was in the chest? Something happened - “

“Yes...yes...” Xenon hissed out over her voice. “The purpose..of the _collection..._ is to restore youth...”

“Obviously,” Isabela mumbled, hands resting on her impressive hips.

Aveline was shaking her head. “Of course you opened it. You were told not to – _of course_ you opened it.”

Hawke glanced between the two women with a furrowed brow. “That's not really fair, I can't even remember!” Both women threw him a look that quelled any further arguments he may have in his defense – future him or not.

“You _owe_ me those chests...Garrett Hawke...”

“Yes.” Aveline said impatiently. “He owes you the chests. Fine. More importantly, how do we _fix_ this?”

Xenon gave what Anders could only assume was an disgruntled grumble. It sounded more like retching. “With these items...time...can only be exchanged...for _time_.”

That didn't sound too promising.

“You are speaking in riddles!” Aveline ground out between clenched teeth, the hand that rested on her sword tightening over the hilt.

The golem moved, shifting its massive form, as if to advance. Anders scrambled back, pulling his staff in front of himself. He edged closer to Leto and Carver.

“Thaddeus! Be still.” Xenon commanded. “This must be made right...I will not lose...this _opportunity_...”

“Glad we're on the same page.” Isabela said derisively, swinging her daggers back into place. Anders had not even seen her draw them.

“In the letters you sent to Hawke, you wrote that there were four of these chests – Do we need to find the other three?” Aveline asked, as though there had been no momentary threat of a golem attacking.

“...Not necessarily.” Xenon replied. “The chest you have...it is empty - yes?”

Aveline and Isabela's eyes met, clearly pleased to finally be getting somewhere with him.

“Yes,” Hawke said before they could answer. “We assumed whatever the artifact was, it was stolen.”

“ _No.”_ Xenon refuted. “You are proof that they will work, with the proper magic.” His raspy voice had taken on a quality of _hunger_ that made Anders' skin crawl. “With each touch of magic the item will reset time...”

“That's what he's after.” Isabela said with a cross of her arms. “Resetting time. But for as far back as you need? That would take centuries.”

Xenon did not seem to hear her. Perhaps he chose not to. “Seven; as with so many magical objects, is the number with which it works...” He continued as if spinning them a tale. “Seven days...seven weeks...seven months...or seven years...”

_Seven years._

Anders glanced up to meet Leto's eyes for a moment, the elf looked away first.

“Each chest...it is a puzzle, of sorts.”

“So we have to solve the puzzle?” Aveline prompted. “How?”

“Solving the puzzle...is not your concern.” Xenon rasped back peevishly. “That is  _my_ concern. When Garrett Hawke brings the four to me as _promised_.”

“Garrett Hawke is in no state to find your blighted chests, Xenon!” Aveline nearly shouted. “ _How_ do we return him to his proper age?”

“...Yes...patience...” The decaying body cooed, almost as if he were calming himself as well as their group. “You have one chest. Use it again. It will reset. _..You_ will reset. _”_

“Reset?” Hawke asked, his eyes lowered in thought. “So we just 'wait patiently', and we'll turn back?”

“With the chest...Yes.”

Isabela groaned. “We just sit around and _wait?_ For how long?

Anders glanced around. “Seven, right? Seven days, weeks, months...or...” His voice trailed off, unwilling to finish. Everyone had turned to look at him.

“...Or seven years.” Xenon finished for him. “I have waited this long...What is another seven years?”

Judging by the looks of alarm that Aveline and Isabela shared; Anders concluded that seven years was not an option.

“It would seem we have more chests to track down.” Aveline declared, voice flat. “Seven days is as long as I can take of this nonsense.”

Hawke shifted, seeming rather mollified. It must be odd to feel guilty for something you haven't even done yet. Though if Anders was looking at seven years in this insane future of his; it was likely a feeling they would be sharing soon enough. He had no doubt he had done one or two things to be regretted. 

 


	8. The First Artifact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the amazing comments and the kudos!

\- - -

Anders sat in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, with Hawke sitting across from him. The dark-haired mage wore a wide smirk, which Anders would generally think unwise in a game of Wicked Grace, but Hawke had proven to be the exception to so many of the rules he had come to believe.

Not that Anders was really one for following rules.

"I'll raise you," He informed the other mage, matching his smirk with one of his own.

The last few days had been a slow construction of his new life, pieces in the puzzle that his mind had become falling short, not quite coming together...

Not that he was getting much help.

Varric almost seemed reluctant to fill in the gaps in his future life that he requested, and Isabela offered only jokes and sarcastic wit if he asked her anything of much importance. Aveline would become impatient and send him to ask Varric, which got him no where as the dwarf was the one he always started with.

Also; he was beginning to suspect that the charming Prince Sebastian did not hold the highest opinion of him. Not that he minded much. Man had his face so far shoved up the Maker's arse, Anders doubted any questions directed at him would result in any answers, and more likely in the way of unwanted prayers.

That left Merrill.

The sweet, adorable, _blood mage,_ Merrill.

Anders still couldn't believe that the Dalish elf was a maleficar. He had her pegged for clueless, absolutely. But, _Maker,_ that went so far beyond _clueless_ straight into completely daft. Despite that, he couldn't bring himself to be exactly frightened of her, more, exasperated. Which wasn't too far from what he had already felt within ten minutes of knowing her. All of this being rather inconsequential - as she also seemed reluctant to tell him much of anything.

He had begun to believe there was some sort of agreement among them all to keep certain things from Anders and the other three affected by whatever the Void it was that had happened to them.

What he _had_ learned over the past few days was that the boy that sat across from him may very well be truly unique, charming, and rather pleasing to look at; but there was no way that Garrett Hawke could be better at bluffing than Anders.

When Isabela had informed him that his older countenance was one of the worst players of this game, he had risen to the challenge. Perhaps becoming a Gray Warden had given him some strange sense of integrity that somehow affected his ability to properly form a Grace-face, or implement a less than honest strategy in order to bluff.

If that were the case, he had no inclination to honor it.

"Anders, you don't have any more coins left," Merrill pointed out as she leaned forward from her perch _on_ the table, rather than one of the empty chairs, looming over their game. From what Anders had gleaned of her comments over the last few minutes, she didn't quite comprehend how the game worked. However, she was not wrong about his current state of funds. He had barely any coins to start with.

"Perhaps the Circle mage would like to bet something else?" Hawke offered, regarding Anders from behind his hand with a look that dared him to refuse.

Anders did not even bother a second look at his own hand and nodded. "Name your terms, apostate."

Carver made what sounded to Anders like an impatient grunt against his crossed arms where his face was currently planted, watching his brother's hand. He had folded for the round with a slam of cards on wooden table, and now the boy was practically pouting.

“How about that enchanted belt you have wrapped around the base of your staff? What are the qualities?” Hawke inquired, smirk unwavering in his negotiations.

Anders glanced at where his staff was propped on the wall not far from him. “Can't say I can remember doing it, but it appears to be a rather remarkable frost boost.”

“Sounds impressive. Do we have a deal?” The other mage raised his dark brows.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Anders was watching Hawke's mabari, Ruthless. The massive dog was made up of little more than buckets upon buckets of drool, but Anders had to admit that he had a certain uncanny intellect. Which was why the look that the mutt was currently giving his cards made Anders pause, reluctant to form any affirmation in regards to the bet.

The moment Anders saw the dog shift his eyes from his hand to his owner's face, Anders suspicions were confirmed. He sat up straighter to point an accusatory finger at Hawke. “You and that bloody mutt are cheating!”

Leto made an almost inaudible sound from behind him, and Anders glanced quickly back to the elf, feeling his face color when he realized how ridiculous he must sound. As usual Leto's expression gave nothing away. The warrior had opted out of playing, a choice that surprised no one. He had been characteristically silent the last few days, offering no questions of his own regarding his future, or rather, the future that belonged to 'Fenris'.

Carver pushed his face from his arms and wore a smug look that suspiciously matched his elder brother's. “Looks like that little trick won't work, Garrett.”

Hawke made a face, his own smug look faltering. “Oh, come on. I just found out he could understand cards...” He held out a hand, and Ruthless eagerly surged forward to cover it with copious amounts of the previously mentioned drool.

Anders suppressed a grimace at the sight. _Fereldens and their dogs._

“That dog is rather adept at playing Wicked Grace. Certainly better than his owner.”

Anders looked up to see Varric pull up a chair at the head of the table, settling a pile of documents in front of him and looking around at them with a bemused expression. He hadn't noticed the dwarf walk in, but had grown used to his silent manifestations as well as those of -

“That's not the best hand, sweet thing. I really wouldn't bet your only coin on it.”

Anders jumped in his seat when the soft words tickled the feathers on his shoulders against his neck, causing the cards to spread out over the table when they fell from his flailing hands.

 _Right._ Evidently he had grown far less used to it than he thought.

“Isabela,” He managed. “Lovely of you to scare the piss out of me.”

Isabela draped her lovely self next to Merrill on the table, crossing her booted legs and smiling down the table at him. “As much joy that it brings me to 'scare the piss out of you', I'm afraid I showed up for a more pressing matter.”

“News?” Hawke straightened in his seat, the cards in his hands forgotten face up on the table. Leto moved to stand closer, interest written on his usually impassive features.

“News.” Varric confirmed. “Through a previous acquaintance of mine, I managed to get word of a shipment of goods that had been, er, 'intercepted' - “

“Stolen.” Isabela supplied.

Varric continued without missing a beat, “ - and it's being held out on the Wounded Coast on a smuggler's ship.”

“How can you be sure it's what we're looking for?” Anders asked as he gathered the cards he had thrown, piling them together before handing them off to Carver, who had begun to shuffle the deck clumsily.

Isabela pulled a folded sheet of paper from her boot and spread it out on the table under her. Crudely scribbled on the paper in smudged black ink was a representation of the runes that could be found on the chest that had brought them all into this mess.

Hawke pulled the paper across the table to him before Anders could reach out, and he leaned closer to the other mage to get a better look. They had pooled their knowledge over the last few days to attempt to make sense of the magic; but even with the proficiency from Anders' Circle education, Hawke's training from his father Malcom Hawke, and Merrill's Dalish insight, they had all come up blank.

Hawke traced one of the symbols with the tips of his fingers. “Matching runes? You're positive?”

“Well, apparently not perfectly matching. But close enough for us to be _very_ interested in 'intercepting' it.” She threw Varric a smirk.

“She means 'steal' doesn't she?” Carver asked with a glance to Varric.

“She means steal.”

\- - -

“These smugglers – do you think they have any connection to the group from that fish warehouse?”

“Perceptive as ever, sweetness. It's a wonder you're our 'fearless leader', as you so often proclaim after you've reached puberty. ” Isabela replied, though her tone was thick with irony, making Anders smile slightly, which widened fully when Hawke flipped her a hand gesture and she bubbled with an unabashed laugh.

The woman's laughter and mood were infectious, despite the fact that they strode toward a place and situation that Anders could only assume would end with bloodshed. A strange group he had surrounded himself with, as what loomed ahead had no effect on any potential jocularity.

The Wounded Coast was a jagged expanse of sharp, impenitent rocks that peppered the sandy path they followed, forcing Anders to watch his steps rather than the exchange between Hawke and Isabela at the front of their little expedition. How Leto was getting on without shoes, he had no idea.

He chanced a glance in the elf's direction to his right, mindful of the uneven terrain beneath his booted feet. Leto was getting on just fine, it would seem. Walking with a thoughtless ease, eyes trained ahead. Handsome face ever unreadable.

“They are of the same company.” Varric said, voice carrying from behind them. “We've been told that they were hired, but we can't get the name of their employer.”

“How did you come by all this information?” Hawke asked. “Who are all of these 'contacts' you have?”

“Best not to ask questions, Hawke.” Varric replied, voice reassuring. “The less you know, the less I have to pretend I didn't tell you.

Hawke threw a look back at the rogue. He clearly didn't know what to make of that, but he grinned. “Right, then. Whatever you say, ser dwarf.”

“So, do we have a plan?” Anders spoke up, kicking a loose rock with his boot from his path. “Or are we just going to - “

“Charge in, clear the ship, and steal everything we can get our hands on?” Isabela suggested. “Funny – I thought that _was_ the plan.”

“Brilliant.” Anders said with a shake of his head and a small huff. _These friends you've surrounded yourself with are mad._

**\- - -**

“If we kill them, we get their stuff!” Anders heard Isabela gleefully exclaim as she threw her body into the air with an impressive leap, coming down on her target with unsheathed daggers poised remorselessly.

“There's a cheerful thought,” Anders muttered wryly. “Though you've revealed to them your brilliant plan!” He called after her as she dissolved into the armed group that had poured from the ship that they had converged upon. It's massive hull was anchored in a cove hidden from the view of a casual traveler by an expanse of unyielding crags.

Leto had joined Isabela in the thick of it, massive sword cutting down assailant after assailant with apparent ease. Hawke pressing forth blows with his magic, sweeping his staff and muscled arms back and forth as armed men and women alike were pummeled by pure force. His face was tight with a concentration, movements belaying caution.

Anders stood at the edge of the fray, pushing waves of healing hesitantly at first, but becoming more bold as the battle continued. Pushing past the screams of protest his mind gave for him to keep the ice, lightning, and fire from escaping his body, he let his nerves crackle with a pure conduction of magic.

A feeling of exhilaration was coursing through him, and when he let loose an arc of lightning – _no holding back._ He let out a breathless, giddy shout. “Destructive forces of nature, coming up!”

Varric was churning bolt after bolt from his extraordinary crossbow, (affectionately referred to as 'Bianca' by the dwarf, much to Anders' and Hawke's amusement) and he laughed at Anders' words. “There you are, Blondie. Was beginning to think you hadn't matured enough for a good fight!”

Anders made a face. “I am not a _child!”_ As if to prove his point, he shoved forth a massive, burning ball of fire; meeting a man square in the chest, and bringing him down with one shot.

The sight of him falling to the ground, dead, at his own hands...Anders shook himself off, feeling with tendrils from the Fade the wounds of his companions – _friends –_ as motivation to justify the man's death.

They were trying to kill them, it did no good feeling guilty for paying them back in turn.

Isabela cut the last throat and sheathed her daggers at her back. “Time to loot the bodies!” She said with a cheer Anders couldn't help but find rather disconcerting.

He took in the scene before him, bodies; beaten, disemboweled, separated from their limbs, and – well, burned.

Anders closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. _Right. Better bloody well get used to this._

“Anders?”

His eyes snapped open, pulled from his discerning thoughts by the sound of Hawke's voice. The other mage held out a familiar blue liquid, his face was flushed and he panted lightly. Anders' took the potion gratefully and felt an automatic response to the injuries he sensed on Hawke's body.

“Leto took a nasty hit to the face,” Hawke said as he held his hands up to fend of Anders' healing ministrations. “Patch him and Isabela up first, they definitely felt the brunt of it.

Anders nodded, feeling that Hawke was not injured too grievously and turning to seek out the dark-haired elf.

Leto was drenched with blood, watching Varric and Isabela make their way through the corpses with his arms crossed. Anders could see the evidence of a knife wound making a deep red line over his face.

“Leto, let me see your face.”

The elf's attention was pulled in his direction, eyes flashing for the barest of seconds with confusion.

“Healer? Remember?” Anders waved his hands. “C'mere. Hawke wants me to take care of you and Isabela first.” He edged his way closer to the warrior, until they stood only an arms-length apart.

Leto turned toward him, offering no words of either protest or even acknowledgment.

Anders studied the clean split of skin, ranging from the corner of an eye down to the edge of his mouth. Blood welling up to flow freely and thickly down the elf's chin. Anders instantly threw up a hand to stop the flow, ease it backward. Brightness lit his palm and fingers.

Leto's eyes seemed fixed on a faraway point, looking through Anders with his proficient neutrality. It was a mask he wore that Anders had come to recognize. A mask that he found himself itching with the impulse to tear off; to expose what thoughts lay beneath its impressive surface.

Unable to help himself (not that he regularly exerted much self-control with little else beyond his magic) he had subjected the stoic man to an array of teasing, needling, pestering, and probing. Trying all that he could think of to pull any small degree of emotion from his face. Relishing in his slip ups.

Unfortunately, more often than not it led to a slip up that showed little more than irritation.

Anders was rather used to being the cause of annoyance in others (no one seemed to appreciate the brilliance of his superior wit) but couldn't help feel a twinge of guilt when he pushed Leto to distemperment. The man had lived his entire life as a _slave,_ for Andraste's sake. Anders teasing him with the goal of dissolving his resolve, something that must come first nature to him due to conditioning, did seem _rather_ wrong.

But...

But he couldn't help feel it worth that guilt, when he managed to pull those rare fleeting emotions from the elf. The surprised rounding of his gorgeous green eyes, huffs and grunts, a furrowing of his dark brows, a contemptuous curl to his lips, a twitching of those same lips into small smiles, and once – a laugh.

Anders fought back the grin his own mouth moved to form at the memory.

He gingerly brought his hand closer, hovering his fingers a hair's breadth away from the warm skin of Leto's injured face. Concentrating on the gash, he pulled energy from the Fade, funneling it through his fingertips to sooth the damaged tissue.

As the skin grafted itself back together under his hand, he shifted his gaze back to those brilliant green eyes. Looking from pupil to pupil, searching for what the elf might be thinking.

Anders thought he could almost glean an...uncertainty there. Or maybe...

With the skin healed, he let his hand drop away quickly, dissipating the pull of magic.

_Fear?_

“Thank you.” Leto mumbled almost gruffly, taking a step away from Anders, leaving him to knit his brow in thought.

 _Leto? Afraid? Of_ what?

“Me, next!” Isabela was standing nearby, evidently finished with her plundering of the dead. She held out a serrated arm, pulling a damaged arm-band back to expose the injured skin.

Anders went to work immediately, bringing the warm energy back to his hands. Isabela was watching his face.

“Something on your mind, sweet thing?”

Anders shrugged with the smallest of movements, concentrating. “Mm, not really. Just, you know, crazy day – _week._ “ He amended after a thought.

Isabela snorted. “Don't bother yourself worrying over it. We'll right this. Hawke always seems to, somehow.”

Anders nodded absently, but spared a quick glance in the direction Leto had walked away to stand (guard) near Hawke and Varric.

“Leto all right?” Isabela asked, following his gaze.

His eyes returned to his work. “Yes, I think so. Can't really tell with him though, can you?”

Isabela chuckled. “I see your point." She rolled her free shoulder. "Still surprises me to see you two getting on.”

Anders looked up from her arm, which continued healing under his hands. “Sorry?”

“Well. No, it's really nothing. Forget I - “

“Enough of that, if you please.” He couldn't help but let a note of irritation sneak its way into his voice. “I'm a big boy. An _adult,_  mind you. I can handle all the truths you lot keep hiding from us.”

Isabela's lovely eyes narrowed slightly, but she smiled, almost guilty. “All right.” She acquiesced. “But, some things are better left unsaid.”

“Such as?” He asked.

“You and Leto. You're – friends.”

Anders blinked. He hoped so, at any rate. “Yes, and? Aren't we all friends?”

Isabela readjusted the brace on her newly healed arm. “Ah, well. In a perfect world, maybe. But...not quite.”

Anders felt his heart sink a bit at her tone.

“You and _Fenris -_ you're not friends.”

Anders eyes sought out Leto at the sound of the name Fenris.

“You _hate_ each other.”

\- - -

Leto was roused from his drowsed state between sleeping and waking with the soft clicking of the door to the Amell estate's library opening and closing. He thought he could detect a carefulness that spoke of an attempt at stealth. More soft noises followed, muffled footfalls, Ruthless whining softly, a second door being pulled open.

The mansion's front door.

Sitting up, Leto's eyes strained to focus in the late-night darkness on the heap of blankets next to his own that made up the mage's sleeping space. After several moments of sitting in quiescence, he leaned forward, straining to hear the steady breathing of the man that had slept next to him in that room for the past week.

Silence.

Not a good sign, the mage was as loud in his dreaming and snoring as he was when his mouth was running during the daylight hours.

Keeping his voice low, he tried, “Anders?”

Nothing.

Leto hesitantly pulled at the blankets, fighting off the protest in the back of his mind that spoke of the foolishness in taking a sleeping mage unawares.

That distant fear was silenced when he had pulled it back enough to reveal that the piles of blankets was empty a body, quickly replacing that fear with an unease. And irritation.

_Anders._

He stood and hastily pulled on his gauntlets and chest plate, ignoring the discomfort in his sleep-addled state at the fleeting thought of how he was able to fix this armor to himself with an awareness that did not require light.

These past few days he had become familiar with this armor. This room, this estate, the people that slept there.

It was an almost comfortable feeling...

_No._

Leto would not become comfortable here in Kirkwall.

With his sword steadfastly strapped to his back, he padded with care from the library, greeted by the sight of a restless mabari on the other side of the door. He nodded to the dog, whom he held a degree of respect for.

“Anders left alone, did he not?” He asked Ruthless with a hushed tone, not wanting to wake the residents. He had a practiced familiarity with moving about as a silent and unnoticed figure in the background. A life of practice.

The mabari whined at his words, and Leto suspected the uncannily perceptive dog understood him. Or perhaps just his general meaning. He took the dogs whining and on edge appearance as confirmation.

Why had Anders left; alone, in the middle of the night, without telling a soul?

Since the trip back from the Wounded Coast, he had seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Offering little comment in regards to the newly acquired chest, only looking it over for a few moments, before leaving it to Hawke, Merrill, and the dwarf Sandal to study. Not that the studying had done much good. They had claimed the magic beyond their knowledge.

Tomorrow would mark their seventh day here...

 _Vishante kaffas._ _What is that mage thinking._

 


	9. Midnight Stroll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :>

**\- - -**

Stepping out into the cool Hightown night, Leto paused on the threshold of the Amell estate. He scanned the streets for any sign of the path that Anders may have taken, or the man himself.

After carefully closing the mansion's door behind him, he took a few tentative strides over the paved stone, flat and cool under his bare feet, and stopped at the center of the clearing to gain his bearings.

With only a week spent in Kirkwall, he had not yet achieved a complete sense of familiarity with his surroundings. He had attempted to catalog what he could, an automatic response gleaned from his training as a warrior. Although, that purpose was for situations in which an attack would occur, not to track someone down.

He doubted Anders would have headed anywhere near the Chantry. The mage did not seem overly fond of the Chant or any of its followers. Also, Anders was an apostate. The Andrastian Chantry of the South kept those born with magical abilities within the walls of their Circles, never allowing them to leave. Anders would often speak of his freedom from the Circle with such candid joy, it seemed unlikely he would risk being recaptured by wandering to that area of Hightown alone in the dead of night.

Vaguely aware of the direction Kirkwall's Chantry lay, Leto headed off the opposite way; searching the few faces and figures that populated the area for a young blond human sneaking along the dimly lit flagstones.

He sensed the presence behind him before he heard the rancorous exclamation that halted his searching pursuit.

“Yer right pretty fer a knife-ear, you are.”  
  
Leto's hand found his sword hilt before he turned to face the speaker. A drunk human man, affluent, by the looks of his attire, was holding himself steady as he stumbled along a smooth stone wall. His speech was slurred, and as he drew closer there was no mistaking the smell of alcohol that permeated the air around him like a looming cloud.

Leto remained still, hesitating to draw his sword against an unarmed human of obvious status. _Though he is not a citizen of the Imperium..._

“Where you headed so late here in Hightown, elf? Shouldn' ya be out by that _tree_ down in the slums?” His leering expression was amplified by his inability to focus due to his intoxication.

Leto did not respond.

“Or are ya one them whores? Headin' to the Rose, are ya? I could walk ya...”

Again, Leto offered no reaction to the man's words. He did take a small step to the side, attempting to move his way around the drunk. It did not go unnoticed.

“Wha's this? Yer a shy knife-ear, eh?” The man's shoulders shook with a coughing laugh. “Can't have that, can we?” He moved to close the distance between them with an ungainly little lunge.

Before Leto could make the decision whether or not to bring his sword forth to cut the drunk noble down, a small blade was driven into the wall between them, forcing the noble to stop short rather than throw himself against the sharp steel.

A small blade attached to a _staff._

“I think it'd be best if you not take another step, mate. Also - you call him 'knife-ear' one more time, I'll freeze _your_ ears off faster than you can say ' _mage'._ ”

_Anders._

Leto glanced up to see the mage's free hand not preoccupied with holding the staff between himself and the drunkard was giving off a distinctive blue glow that was undoubtedly responsible for the sudden plummet in temperature that had settled around them. His tone had been casual, as if offering friendly advice to a stranger on the street.

His cold smile, however, was not friendly in the slightest.

After he had stumbled back, the noble righted himself with an indignant snort. His reddened eyes squinted at Anders, and perhaps he did not feel the chill that laced the air through the added heat of his inebriation.

“Whas' this, then?” He leaned heavily against the wall, flattening his back. “You some Lowtown beggar come to steal an upstanding fella's fun, eh? Or maybe it's my clothes yer after!” He pointed, his finger missing its target and indicating the space next to Anders. “To replace that hideous feather smock yer sportin'?”

Anders made a face, and Leto frowned when the mage actually wasted the time to glance himself over.

“We were just leaving.” Leto offered, looking at Anders with what he hoped was a pointed expression.

“You sure I can't freeze the blighter to a lamp post?” Anders asked, temperature dropping further. “We could send Aveline to collect him in the morning...”

Leto nearly smiled, but shook his head. “It is not up to me what you choose to do with him, Anders. But perhaps it would be unwise to draw attention to your...abilities.”

Anders threw him a smile of his own and shrugged. “I'd say it _is_ your call. You're the one the bastard insulted.” He maneuvered his staff to level the bladed edge at the man's throat. The noble's glassy eyes widened and he pressed even further into the wall, as if trying to sink through it.

Leto had no words for such a statement. He did not have the wherewithal to be truly insulted by the man. He was a slave.

“Apologize to my friend here.” Crystallized frost wove its way over the blade of the staff. “I wasn't joking about your ears.”

“Anders, this is a waste of time. I do not require an apology.” Leto insisted.

“Maybe _I_ require it.” Anders muttered, pressing the frosted blade closer to the other human's throat.

“F-Fine, then. I _apologize.”_ The man spat out through clenched teeth, his hands grasping for purchase at the wall behind him.

Anders scoffed but lowered the blade, twisting it round to slam the head of the staff into the man's side. He careened away from them with an angry cry, falling to his knees a moment, before pulling himself up to stumble away from the mad apostate and the 'pretty for a knife-ear' elf.

Leto did not look away from his stumbling figure until he had disappeared out of sight in the darkness, only then moving his gaze to Anders, whose eyes he could feel watching him.

“You followed me,” Anders observed slowly when their eyes finally met. It was not an accusation. He almost seemed...amused.

“Yes.” Leto said simply, but couldn't help feeling nettled by the mage's amusement. “You did not tell anyone where you were going. It is dangerous to travel Kirkwall at night.”

“Ever the bodyguard, our Leto.” Anders said in a lightly mocking tone.

Leto did not respond. The remark perturbed him for a reason he could not explain.

“And here _I_ am, rescuing _you,”_ The mage went on, his words causing Leto to twitch at their implication. “Perhaps I should be _your_ bodyguard, Leto.”

Leto stared at him, unable to think of a suitable response to that ridiculous little proclamation. It occurred to him that the mage was baiting him. Teasing.

Instead of offering any acknowledgment, he asked, “Anders, what are you doing?” His voice was soft, perhaps sounding a bit uncertain. Still unused to saying such things so openly. Asking questions that were beyond his place.

Anders flipped his staff to his back, securing it into place. “Nothing to come chasing after me about; though I suppose that was inevitable. You're as bad as that mabari of Hawke's, you are.” He began walking then, and Leto had no choice but to follow or risk losing sight of him.

“I was just headed to my clinic...I haven't been back since that first time, and I...wanted to see it again. Before tomorrow.”

Leto frowned. “It is very late to be walking alone. Why did you tell no one?” He wanted to add how _foolish_ he thought the mage was, walking from Hightown to Darktown alone, at night, but he resisted. But only just barely. He swallowed, uncomfortable with how the man always seemed to push him passed his resolve.

Here he was, gradually picking up habits and mannerism that were unwise for a slave to possess, however briefly. He knew he was growing far too relaxed around these people...

Hawke, the charming Ferelden mage of _noble_ birth, who would bring Leto food from his own kitchens, offering himself up to listen even though Leto had no words to give. His brother Carver, who had watched Leto perform blade exercises, blue eyed scowl betraying his want to join him, until the ever pragmatic guardswoman Aveline had presented them with wooden practice swords with which to spar. Varric, somehow getting them all around a table on a regular basis, weaving tales that spun around in Leto's mind long after the dwarf's hypnotic prose had ended. Merrill, who would catch him by surprise, offering comments and actions that were so naïve he often had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. Sebastian, with his calming voice offering prayers in that thick accent Leto had never heard before. Isabela, with her laughter and scandalizing but _honest_ sense of humor, who had pulled more reluctant smiles from him than any other.

Besides perhaps...

Anders.  
  
Anders who...confused him.

A _mage_ whose magic offered a soothing quality he had never felt the like of, spreading over his senses with a sensation akin to sinking sore muscles into a hot basin of water. Whose jokes and humor were so incredibly odd and often inappropriate, but had unwillingly grown on him. The man with which he shared a room at night, sleeping a few feet away, never failing to offer his voice in long conversations that generally went without reply, lulling Leto to surprisingly peaceful sleep. Who had seemed insulted on _his_ behalf, when another human had called him 'knife-ear'.

Anders, who...

Was staring at him expectantly.

Leto blinked, ashamed to have lost his own attentions to such frivolous thoughts while they still remained in a situation of dubious safety. “I...I am sorry.” He said, aware that he was the one who had asked a question, and had completely missed the other man's answer. He felt his face warm. _Now who is acting foolish._

Anders just smiled his characteristic half-smile and shook his head. “Lost in thought, I see. Well, if you're too busy with your inner monologue of brooding; perhaps you won't be joining me on the walk to my clinic?”

Leto nearly scoffed. “I will accompany you. It is unsafe to travel alone.”

“Clearly,” Anders said dryly. “Perhaps less safe for handsome elves such as yourself?” Leto offered no response, which he presumed Anders and even the others were used to by now.

It was not the first time Anders had called him handsome. The man insisted on 'flirting' with every single one of their companions. Him and Isabela together were at times unbearably flagrant with their comments to both each other and those around them.

Leto studied his feet as they walked a moment in silence, before murmuring a soft, “Thank you.”

“' _Thank you_ '?”

When Leto glanced up he realized his mistake by the wide smirk and raised brows on Anders' face.

“For _earlier._ ” He amended quickly before the mage could be encouraged in his ridiculous flirtations. “I did not want to have to kill that man.”

Anders snorted, relaxing into his stride as he took them down the first set of stairs that led away from Hightown. “Speak for yourself.”

**\- - -**

Anders lit the few meager lanterns throughout the clinic's interior to shed a guttering light over their surroundings. As more came into focus around them, he began a second, more in depth search of his future home; happy to have more time in which to inspect without interruption. Despite the late hour, he could not feel the usual effects of a sleepless body, his nerves prickling with alertness.

Tomorrow would be the seventh day, and he did not know exactly what that meant. What was going to happen to them? Would he not remember this week? Simply returning back to a man he could not understand?

Leto had remained a still figure standing in the background as Anders moved throughout the clinic, green eyes watching him in silence.

Leto would become 'Fenris' once again.

Leto would hate him.

He took into account the elf's impassive mask, shielding as much as he could from the world, and was briefly troubled by the thought that kept sneaking its way into the back of his mind.  _Perhaps he already does?_

After a cursory walk and a more thorough cataloging of the items around of the clinic, Anders settled in at his desk. He yanked an array of documents toward him, scanning their contents in the scant light. The handwriting _was_ his, but the words were...odd. He found himself agreeing in some instances, but widening his eyes at others. _The complete abolition of the Circle of Magi._ That was perhaps going too far beyond idealistic. The Chantry would never allow such a thing.

He read through every page he could manage, before his eyes began to sting between blinking.

Some of the words scrawled over the tattered pages almost seemed as though they had been etched down with a furious unstopping gait, page after page pulled from him with no break for what had to have been _hours._

Settling the sheets of parchment back into a pile, Anders sat back with a hand scraping over the light stubble at his jaw. He had hoped to gather even a small understanding of himself by this visit; yet here he was, further away from any understanding than before.

“Maker's breath,” He sighed out, feeling a late wave of exhaustion roll over his frayed nerves. “I don't recognize the man that wrote this...” He turned round in the chair to look at Leto in the dim light. “Though it would seem I am to become him.”

Leto had not moved. After a moment, he offered a quiet observation, “What lays ahead tomorrow; it troubles you.”

Anders stood, his stiff muscles indicating how long he had sat reading in the near dark so late at night. He spared a moment to feel guilty for Leto's sake, the other man was no doubt rather drowsy himself, forcing himself to stay awake because of him.

“Troubles me? I suppose,” He made his way over to one of the cots to sit, gathering his thoughts. “I never did think too much beyond an escape from the Tower. What I would do; where I would go...” He briefly thought of Karl, and shook off the familiar ache. “This is...just not what I would have pictured myself doing.”

Anders lay back on the cot, his legs draped over the edge, and stared up at the high ceiling. He settled his arms crossed behind his head, yanking the leather tie that held up his hair in the process.

He heard Leto edge his way closer, and closed his eyes.

“I understand.” The warrior offered softly.

Anders chuckled. “I suppose you would, in a way.”

When he felt a weight press down on the other side of the cot, his eyes opened. Leto had sat next to him, gaze trained forward.

“I am...reluctant to give this life back to the man I will become.”

Anders thought over these words. “Don't trust Fenris all that much, do you?” He didn't add that Fenris had the right idea, getting himself out of slavery. Leto did not respond well to mentions of his 'freedom'.

“I cannot comprehend...how he must think.” Leto said, the words coming out slowly.

Anders looked back to the ceiling, his intake and release of breath shifting the creaky cot. “About him,” He began. “Fenris, that is.”

There was a small stretch of silence.

“Yes?”

Anders kept his eyes from wandering back to the elf, trying to keep his voice casual. “Isabela...told me something about him and me – well, not _me_ me; 'raving renegade Warden' me.”

When Leto did not reply he went on.

“The thing is, she said that you and I don't get on. That we...” He cleared his throat. “That we _hate_ each other. Completely, apparently. We have frequent rows, 'always at each other's throats', she said.”

When the cot creaked again as Leto shifted, Anders' dragged his eyes over to meet his, trying to gauge his reaction. They were unsurprisingly unreadable, even more so than usual in the dim lighting.

And the blighted elf said nothing.

Anders squirmed a bit impatiently under his gaze.

“Leto – do you hate me?”

The words hung in the air a moment, once again met by silence from the elf. Anders rushed on with little thought, filling the silence with words generally reviewed in one's mind before spoken aloud, too tired for such common sense to take hold.

“ _I_ don't hate _you,_ that is. I...enjoy your company, actually. You have a lovely voice, when I can convince you to use it. But – you don't often, so it's not too surprising that I would have no idea what you think of me, is it? You're so bloody stoic. It's a reasonable assumption to make that you could possibly hold some secret hatred for me or anyone else for tha – "

“I do not hate you, Anders.”

Anders faltered in his ramblings, mouth pausing in a small gape before spreading into a slow smile. “Right, well...good.” He nestled his body into the lumpy cot and closed his eyes again, feeling suddenly more relaxed. “Good.” He repeated nonsensically through a wide yawn.

He felt Leto pull himself further onto the cot, pressing his back against the wall it was propped against.

There was a far more comfortable stretch of silence after that, and Anders' eyes staying closed this time around.

He knew that he should get up, that there would be consequences to not returning to the Amell estate that night. Consequences to falling asleep in the dangers of Darktown in their current state, with no word to others on their whereabouts. They had been watched this past week; in a way it had perturbed Anders, bringing thoughts of Templars...

Yet Anders couldn't bring himself to haul his body from what was no doubt a usually uncomfortable cot; made irresistibly comfortable by the warm weight at his side. A weight that banished thoughts of endless lonely nights in a stone tower leagues away physically, but still lingering at the forefront of recent memory.

He was absently reminded of Templars again – warriors watching him and all other mages even as they slept for signs of corruption; but pushed these thoughts away as the Fade crept its way over him.

For once, he did not mind the warrior that guarded his sleep.

**\- - -**

 


	10. Uncertain Terms

\- - -

The brand that embossed her forehead wasn't an angry welt as one might expect of a fresh burn. A perfectly symmetrical sunburst symbol; the skin around it empty of any cracks or breaks, seemingly unaffected by the permanence etched there.

But this was not a naturally occurring burn.

“ _Anders!” Her smile was a bright flash of teeth against the deep tone of her skin, dark eyes bright and warm. “I'd say I'm happy to see you – but I suppose that would just be an insult! Where have you been hiding outside the Tower for three whole weeks?”_

“Anders. Can I be of assistance?” Her eyes were no longer bright. Devoid of that warmth now. She was smiling, but it was an ugly, empty thing.

He hadn't realized his fingers were trembling until he had reached out to run them over the brand. It was completely smooth, no puckering or raising of the flesh. Nothing like any burn he had ever felt.

_Anders sat huddled, thirteen, arms wrapped around his legs with his forehead resting on his knees._

“ _You're that Ander kid, right?”_

_He peeked through the blonde curtain of his unbound hair up at the older girl that stood before him. She was tall, and pretty, and the expression she wore was so honestly kind that Anders found himself nodding before he had even decided to trust her._

_She held a hand out. “Enchanter Wynne is asking after you. Will you come with me?”_

_He stared at her hand for a long moment, then he slowly raised his own to place it there._

“You appear distressed. If you are feeling ill, I can go retrieve a healer to assist you.”

“ _You have a knack for healing don't you?” Her voice was rich with amusement._

_Anders smirked slyly up at her, confident in his growing abilities. “I've a knack for many things, don't you know?”_

_She always laughed in a way that made every person in the room feel in on some joke, never failing to draw smiles; sometimes even from Templars. Rumor had it, she'd once even cracked the face of the Knight-Commander._

“ _Well, concentrate on this one, won't you? You've a talent, and some of us aren't so lucky as you, charming boy.”_

“You are not well.” That flat voice insisted. 

She would never...laugh again.

Anders took a wide step back, yanking the sleeve of his robe over the wet line that had traced down his cheek.

“I am _fine_.” His voice shook, but he did not care. He ignored the prying eyes of the two Templars that stood at the door of the room, standing ready for any emotional outburst.

Mages were unstable. They could not be trusted with even their own feelings.

Not bothering to offer any parting words, Anders turned away from her and staggered his way out the door, passed the Templars, clenching his jaw when one of the bastards followed him.

He could not do this. He could not live here the rest of his life with those once bright eyes staring at him with all the joyless sterility of a child's doll.

_A plaything of the Chantry's._

With his teeth grinding so tightly they began to ache, he held back the scream that threatened to rip from his throat. Hurling himself down flight after flight of stone steps, paying no attention to the raised brows and hushed whispers.

Everyone in the Tower would know soon enough. The news will travel from mouth to mouth in less than an hour, until even the most junior apprentice and elderly Enchanter would know of the newest Tranquil mage.

He tore open the door to the room he sought with such force, it banged against the stone wall.

“Anders? Are you all right?”

He threw himself bodily against Karl, hands grasping for purchase blindly until they balled into fistfuls of the other mage's robes. He felt the nausea that was rolling around in his stomach subside a fraction as the familiar comfort of Karl's scent washed over him.

Arms came around his shoulders to grasp him tightly, pulling him deeper into that comforting shelter.

“She –” His voice nearly broke.

“I know, Anders...I heard.” Karl's voice was thick, but steady.

“Why would she _do_ this? Her Harrowing was in just two days; she could have...I _know_ she was strong enough.”

Anders and Karl's own Harrowings were not far off. For this to happen; it was a blow beyond even the loss of another friend. He did not doubt that he would be strong enough. Could not doubt it...

Yet a fear was deeply ingrained in his mind, as it was in every unharrowed apprentice's. The fear that the demon would win. Even the strongest of mages could fall. A thought that drove some to the most desperate of escapes. Tranquility. Suicide.

Karl's fingers traced over his hair, following a trail from his temple to where it was gathered up in a loose ponytail. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the touch.

“Anders...”

He tried to open his mouth to say something, but found that the sounds that came out were suddenly no longer coherent. “Mm...mmph..”

“Anders.”

His brow furrowed, eyes opening to find a brightness that was not there a moment ago blurring his view.

“Anders, wake up.”

_Wake up?_

His arms were still tightly wrapped around Karl's waist, holding them close together...

But that deep voice did not belong to Karl.

Anders blinked furiously as his vision returned to him, bright blurs settling into clarity.

Dark hair greeted his focusing eyes, and his drowsy mind supplied that his forehead and nose were nuzzled against the warm skin of a smooth neck. Pulling back, his stubbled cheek scraped lightly over that sensitive skin, and he felt the body against his shiver. Sharp bits of armor were biting and pinching into his chest and arms. He paused to sleepily search the face of the owner of that familiar deep voice.

Leto's green eyes were wide with a poorly guarded unease, their bodies pressed together and held there by the unyielding grip of Anders' arms. Their noses nearly touched, and the elf's uneven breath tickled the skin of his face and neck.

Anders didn't bother attempting to swallow with his mouth suddenly so dry, but cleared his throat, flashing a fleeting sheepish smile.

“Well, this is a bit awkward.”

An awkward silence accompanied his words, somehow managing to make it worse.

When the other man squirmed in his grip, Anders remembered himself, arms immediately loosening from around his waist.

Before he could open his mouth to even begin to apologize, a long, loud whistle cut him off.

“Looks like they snuck off together for a _very good_ reason after all!”

Isabela.

She was standing a few yards from them near the now open doors of his clinic; accompanied by a disapproving Sebastian, a calculating Varric, and a Hawke that was the perfect mirror of her shocked delight.

Anders grimaced, rolling himself up and out of the cot as quickly as he could manage with his muscles stiff and sluggish from sleep, mind addled from the unpleasant memories in his dreams. His face was warm with embarrassment, but he managed a smile. “Keep your little fantasies to yourself, Isabela. We were just sleeping.”

“Anders, really – coming from you?” Hawke was wearing a look that was too smug and knowing for Anders' nerves at that moment. “You're always the first to join in when she gets going!”

Anders threw him a warning look followed by a quick, pointed glance in Leto's direction. The elf was back to being impassive, but his slow, careful extraction from the cot gave away how uncomfortable he must have been.

 _Brilliant. Perhaps he really_ does _hate you now._

Anders wanted to fling himself back into the cot and groan into a pillow in a fit of self-reproach, but relaxed into an easy stance to go with his disarming smile. “I came back here for some light reading...” He indicated the piles of parchment he had studied the night before at his desk. “Leto offered to keep me company.”  
  
Isabela snorted. “ _'Company'_. Right. We noticed.”

This earned a tight-lipped frown from Anders, expression almost pleading.

“Oh alright, I'm done. I'll be good.”

Varric and Sebastian gave identical grunts of doubt at her unlikely pledge, but Isabela didn't seem put off by this, ignoring them in favor of Anders. Her narrowed tawny eyes were regarding him with a look that spoke of conversations to be had later, and held a degree of insight that forced him to resist the urge to return her steady gaze with a petulant scowl.

Leto was busying himself with the retrieval of his sword, laid out carefully in the cot next to the one they had shared; within arm's reach, Anders noted. _Always prepared for an attack._

He supposed he should consider himself lucky that the warrior hadn't used it on him when he had practically held him down against his will in the cot.

Anders winced and looked away from him at the thought.

He already suspected that Leto might just be afraid of him. Or, rather, afraid of his magic. An idea that he had to admit stung just a bit, but he couldn't quite bring himself to hold it against the elf. Who knew what he had faced in Tevinter? From what Anders had learned within the Circle, the Tevinter Imperium was not a pleasant place to be if you were born without magic. Even less so if one was born an elf. And even less than that, a slave.

Leto had grown up in the lowest position of that society; a society run by mages that were known for their proficiency in blood magic.

If he really was afraid of mages as Anders suspected, he had hoped to show him that there were mages capable of good things as well. That _he_ was not someone to be feared.

“ _I do not hate you, Anders.”_

And then he had gone and virtually groped the man in his sleep.

Generally, such a thing wouldn't bother Anders in the slightest. Waking up beside a beautiful bed partner if even by accident would bring him great amusement and perhaps an attempt at more.

But with _Leto_...

“You two had better get ready for a lecture...” Varric said with a chuckle as Anders pulled his staff from where he had left it propped against the wall.

“Why?” He asked with true apprehension.

First he wakes from an unpleasant dream of things he would really rather not remember, then he embarrasses himself by clinging to and constraining the prickly elf he may or may not be growing rather fond of, and now he was being told to brace himself to be yelled at for wanting a moment to himself in his own (sort of) home before his already confusing new life got any more confusing.

“You'll see.” Was all the dwarf said, exchanging a look with an amused Hawke, who reached out and clasped Anders' shoulder reassuringly.

A small comfort, but appreciated. He flashed the other mage a crooked smile.

“Lead the way.”

**\- - -**

“ _What,_ in Andraste's name, were you _thinking_?”

Leto saw Anders flinch slightly, but the mage continued scowling at the guardswoman with his head held high, remaining as defiant as he ever was.

“I was _thinking_ , I don't know, why not spend the night in my own damn clinic? Was that really so –“

"Incredibly foolish? Yes, Anders. Yes, it was.” Aveline snapped, cutting him off. No sooner had they stepped through the door than the woman had descended upon them both with a flurry of accusations and a lengthy criticism of their judgment.

Anders was ready for more, opening his mouth to retaliate, but Hawke waved a hand in front of his face. “Just promise Aveline you won't go running off again and we can get to the fun.”

The blonde mage smiled with mock sincerity. “I _promise_ I won't run away again.”

Aveline glowered, but did not argue it further. She did, however, cuff the back of Anders' head as she drew past him.

“Maker's balls, woman...” Anders rubbed the spot above his pony tail. “You do realize you have _metal_ on your hands?”

Aveline's silence as she strode up the stone steps seem to answer for her. She was perfectly aware.

Anders made an attempt to share a look with Leto, but glanced quickly away, appearing embarrassed. He had not been engaging Leto as he usually did, almost seeming to avoid him on their trip back to the estate from the clinic where they had slept.

After having a nightmare of some sort...

When Leto awoke that morning to the mage jerking around, he had been unsure of how to react. If he should wake him up or maybe just slide away from the awkward hunched sleeping position he had found himself in and let the man wake on his own.

But then he spoke.

Not so unusual; he had heard him speaking and grunting in his dreams before. His voice though, it seemed to almost...shake. He had said a name, one that Leto couldn't remember, too distracted with the naked sorrow in Anders' soft timbre.

Leto did not know what possessed him to do it, but he had reached out to run his fingers over the mage's face. Soothing his fingertips over dark golden scruff. His mother would do that, for Varania and him, when they were sad.

Anders had made a soft sound, and before Leto realized the mage's intentions enough to pull away, he was being yanked against the other man, and held in a tight embrace.

He was going to slip away, easily pry the mage's arms off him, but...

There was that voice again, a shaking breath against his neck, and he could remember the name that Anders had said then.

_Karl._

He almost wanted to ask, to know;  _Who is Karl?_

And maybe even,  _Are you all right..?_

But it was not his place to know, to ask, to offer. And seeing as he would no longer know who even _Anders_ was soon, it did not matter.

None of it did.

Leto had obligations back in Minrathous, where things made sense and he knew his place in the world. This could not be his future, which had already been set out for him by the hand of his Master just moments before he had awoken to this madness. He had earned that fate, competed and killed for it.

He was to become a living weapon, and his Master's personal bodyguard.

In return...he would be giving his mother and sister their freedom.

Yet here he was, in this 'future'. As Fenris, the fugitive. He could not bring much to mind when thinking of the man he was to become other than how completely selfish he must be.

And there it was again, in his thoughts. The questions he shied from whenever they bled through his narrow-minded defenses. _Do not ask these questions; they do not matter._

_But..._

Where were his mother and sister, after all these years? _Seven years._ Were they happy? Had he at least given them that much...?

The one thing he had dared to want, and had finally achieved by trading everything he could possibly offer?

“Leto.”

He turned his attention to Hawke, who was motioning him to follow him up the estate's stone stairs. He obeyed without thought, striding to meet the mage and climb the steps where the others were already waiting at the landing.

They stood in an uneven circle; Leto and Hawke falling into step beside them to broaden the shape. At the center sat the chest that they had snagged from the ship on the Wounded Coast the morning before.

Leto focused on the chest, unable to pinpoint what it was he felt knowing that this strange dream would be over soon.

“So then, how should we do this?” Isabela asked, the first to break the silence, as well as the circle. She strode purposefully forward, lifting a boot to press the heel down on the ancient wood. “There is no lock that I can find, which means it's up to our talented mages to open it.”

Hawke nodded, but stayed where he was in the broken line of their circle. “Yes. Anders, Merrill, and I think we know how we can open it. We would have tried it last night but Aveline...“

“I advised against it,” Aveline confirmed, armored gauntlets crossed. “We already have one mess to clean up, we don't need anyone making it worse to satisfy curiosities. On that note – get your grubby-booted arse away from that blasted thing. We don't need a young pirate on our hands as well.”

Isabela rolled her eyes, but removed her boot, taking a few steps back to stand between Leto and Hawke. “Doubt any of you could have handled me at that age. I was rather wild, according to some.”

“More wild than the Isabela we know?” Hawke asked, voice teasing. He bumped her shoulder amicably with his unarmored one. “We can't even handle you as you are now.”

Isabela smirked up at him through dark lashes. “Oh, you'd be surprised what you can ' _handle_ ' as an adult, sweet thing. Especially of mine.”

Hawke visibly balked at her words, face coloring. “I – yes. Well...that's...”

“I don't understand.” Merrill put in thoughtfully. “Why can't he handle them now?”

Carver's face took on a look of horror. “I – I did not need to hear that. Any of it.”

Anders let out a small laugh, drawing Leto's attention to where he stood directly at the other side of their circle. The mage almost seemed to feel the weight of Leto's gaze, as his laugh was cut short when he shifted his golden eyes to focus on him.

Leto looked away, to Varric who had stepped forward to break the circle once again.

“Red's got a point – “

“Do not call me that – “ Aveline snapped.

“ - we need to approach this with as much a degree of caution as you people can manage.” Varric gave them a sardonic smirk as he regarded them from the center. “Which isn't much.”

“Let's have those...'afflicted' by this, stand by the chest,” Sebastian suggested. “That way the rest of us can be sure to avoid what comes next.”

Varric nodded. “Seems the place to start.” The dwarf made his way over to lean against the railing on the far side of the landing.

Leto went to stand beside Carver and Anders, who had taken position on either side of the chest.

There was a pause.

Eight pairs of eyes found their way to the so-called leader of their strange little group.

“Hawke?”

Hawke had been studiously looking over his lone gauntlet, face still a bit pink from Isabela's little assertion. “Sorry, what?” He looked up, seeing the circle had separated into two groups. “Oh, er. Right...” He moved to stand opposite Leto.

“Is this really far enough away to stand?” Aveline asked from where they lined up against the railing by Varric. “I think it would be better if we waited on the first floor at least.”  
  
“But, what if something goes wrong?” Merrill asked, brow furrowing over her round eyes. “It could be dangerous.”

“We'll manage.” Anders remarked, grinning at her. “Though it's so sweet of you to worry about us. Warms an apostate's heart, that does.”

“She's speaking for all of us.” Carver pointed out, voice as flat as the look he was giving the mage. “Not just you."  
  
Anders raised his brows at him, amused rather than bothered by the boy's coarse attitude. “Noticed, have you?” His voice seemed to drip with a deeper meaning, unnoticed by the Dalish elf.

Carver colored slightly and scowled pointedly at the chest. “Let's just get this over with.”

Anders was grinning. “Yes, let's. Before the Hawke brothers show us any more shades of 'red'.” Hawke and Carver exchanged looks of annoyance.

Stepping forward, Anders indicated to Hawke to follow suit. As they lifted their hands together, Leto noticed Sebastian take a few tentative steps toward the stairs.

“Ready then, Circle mage?” Hawke's fingertips lit with the tell tale signs of magic surging forth.

“As I'll ever be, apostate.” Anders almost seemed apprehensive, his fingers matching the mage he stood next to.

Leto was reminded of his concerns from the night before, concerns that they shared...

Could they trust the men they would become?

As if he had said the words aloud, Anders looked at him, searching his face from across the chest. Leto resisted the urge to look away, holding his own gaze steady; wanting to say something to Anders before he knew him no more, but having no idea what that something might be.

The runes etched over the chest in an intricate pattern lit with an unearthly light, revealing some unseen text indecipherable to Leto, who could not read in any language.

Anders and Hawke clearly had no problem, leaning forward to read.

“I can't...what language is that?” Hawke's brow was knit in concentration.

“That's...Tevene.” Anders said slowly. “This must be of Tevinter make.”

“Well, what does it say? Can you understand it?”

Before Anders could respond there was a click so audible even the other group that stood a few yards away must have heard. The lid flew open with a snap at the hinges, needing no help from the people that stood before it; moving of its own volition.

Leto's eyes narrowed and his body tensed; prepared for the world to shift, to change, to reverse into _sense._

But...

Kirkwall remained.

For a solid minute, no one spoke.

Then, the silence was broken with a litany of profanity.

“Oh, Andraste's bleeding _tits!”_ Isabela hissed, at the same moment Varric said, “Well, shit.”

More words of grumbled exasperation followed, everyone having put their hopes in this next attempt. One week had gone by, and Hawke was apparently a rather important mage in Kirkwall, he was needed.

Discussions immediately began of their next step, focusing on any leads on a third or even the _fourth_ chest (which brought about more grumbles) and of the Tevene that lit when the chest was opening, revealing a new angle with which to tackle the issue.

Through the chaos, Leto let out the breath he'd been holding since that click had gripped his throat with its possible promise to erase this last week from his memory. When he lifted his eyes to meet Anders' golden brown, he saw his own expression mirrored back.

_Relief._

**\- - -**

Hours later, they all sat in Varric's suite in the Hanged Man, and for the most part; all of them were getting rather drunk.

Anders certainly knew he was.

Sitting next to Isabela, who was on her fourth tankard, he tipped his own to her (his third) with a wide grin. “To the Captain Isabela! May you never be forced to put on pants!”

She chortled at this, leaning forward too far and being gently hoisted back by Merrill, perched on the table near them.

They had run out of toasts for specific people around the table (and a few not present) and begun the obvious next step to go with their growing inebriation; toasting the nonsensical.

“Too right!” She agreed, throwing the amber liquid back.

“Anders, I've never seen you drunk.” Merrill said, smiling down at him. “Your cheeks are so red under your facial hair!”

Anders snorted, but he frowned at a sudden thought. “What do you mean, 'never seen me drunk'? I love to drink!”

Merrill sipped at her own drink. “Well, you know, justice – “

“ _Kitten.”_ Isabela hissed, eyes giving way a sudden clarity through her tipsiness.

Anders squinted. “What are you always on about with me and 'justice', Merrill?” He took another swig, face drunkenly thoughtful. “Come to think of it, my 'mani... _festo'_ mentions 'injustices' an awful lot...You think it's some Grey Warden thing?” He leaned in closer to the elf. “One of their famous ' _secrets'_?” He said 'secrets' slow and deliberate, a pointed jab at what the others were obviously keeping from them.

He did not miss the meaningful glance passed between the women, causing him to focus an uneven scowl on each of them individually.

_They know something..._

“Obviously we have no idea what goes through that Warden head of yours, sweetness.” Isabela said with an evasive wave of her hand. “Speaking of which.” Her eyes narrowed then. “What was going on in _your_ head when we found you in bed this morning?”  
  
Anders eyes widened. “I – nothing.” He leaned in close to Isabela now, lowering his voice. “ _Keep your voice down.”_

Leto was three chairs down, coaxed into actually sitting with them at the table for a change. He was sipping carefully at a cup of rubbish the tavern insisted was alcohol. Sebastian and Hawke sat on either side of him, talking between him. His green eyes moving from speaker to speaker, never missing a word.

Anders smiled.

Isabela noticed. “Oh, no. This isn't going to end well...” But she was also smiling, following his line of sight.

Anders shrugged, taking another long sip.

So, perhaps he had a few more days here in Kirkwall. Maybe even a week or two...An apostate living in the underground sewers in one of the most mage-hostile city states in Southern Thedas yes, but...

Leto's eyes widened at something Hawke said, coughing up the swallow he had been attempting to let out a _laugh_.

Anders bit his lip, his stomach seeming to squeeze itself into a little flip.

Hawke roared with his own laughter and thumped the elf hard on the back. Isabela was grinning at Anders knowingly. He looked away again, aiming to concentrate on the ice swirling at the bottom his tankard.

_Maker, but he was in trouble, wasn't he?_

 

 


	11. Fenris' Mansion

\- - -

 

Anders was distracted by something.

Leto had come to this conclusion while observing the human fidgeting in the seat next to his; toying with the feathered quill he held, pulling at it absently until the feather had begun to wilt. His pale hands would not remain still, and he did not appear to be giving any attention to the papers laid out before him on the polished wooden table.

Anders was staring over the stacks of documents and books piled around them, not seeming to notice when the withered feather was finally wrenched from the doomed quill; his line of sight remaining trained out one of the Amell estate library windows. Following his gaze, Leto saw that the view of the Hightown streets below gave way little of note or much interest; a guardsman making his rounds to keep Kirkwall's most well-to-do safe, a few birds pecking meagerly at the remnants of a wasteful discarding of food, and an affluent couple taking a stroll against the backdrop of the ivy-lined stone, hands wrapped together and bodies leaning close.

Leto found his own eyes wandering from the exterior scene back to the mage himself, unable to grasp what had him so preoccupied. The afternoon sun poured from the high windows, lighting his hair to a burnished gold, and casting his eyes to a shade that Leto had come to associate with the deep richness of poured honey.

When those honey eyes blinked with sudden clarity, Leto quickly looked away from them, feeling a warmth prickle to the tips of his ears that had little to do with the sunlight.

He had caught himself staring at the mage far too many times over the past few weeks, (much to his own personal unease) and he did not need Anders to begin catching him at it as well.

Leto pushed past his self-imposed discomfort as he attempted to focus on the loops and lines inscribed on the paper in front of him. Any recently gained recognition in regards to their meaning or sound escaped him, his mind preoccupying itself on things he would rather avoid. The man next to him mumbled something about it being, “too early for this...” and stifled a yawn. The shuffling noises of paper being rummaged and the scratch of the ruined quill seemed to indicate the mage's renewed concentration on his task.

The extraction of the text from the artifact had turned out to be a tedious and time consuming endeavor; owing to the fact that to do so, Hawke and Anders had needed to activate the hidden Tevene script with continuous administrations of magic. They would have only a few moments after the loud snap of the lid to copy down as much as they could manage before they were forced to restart the process.

When the mages had finished transcribing most of the glowing Tevene down, Leto had assisted Anders in translating the words into the Common tongue, filling in the gaps left by Anders' limited vocabulary. The mage's grasp of the language was surprisingly broad, though his ability to speak it aloud was not quite fluid enough to be considered fluent.

The script itself was mostly nonsensical; a story with no discernible meaning – a riddle, they had guessed. The talking corpse that had put them in this mess had mentioned a puzzle of some sort, and it was likely connected.

It was during these collaborative translations that Anders had insisted on teaching Leto the basics of literacy. _Reading_. An insistence backed by Hawke – and Leto had to admit, saying no to the boy was difficult.

Though he had tried...

 _Literacy is a useless application in a bodyguard. Slaves should not be taught such things. Pointless, ridiculous, waste of time._ The mages would hear none of his claims, sketching out an alphabet for him almost absent-mindedly as they worked together on the chest's ambiguous text.

So there Leto sat, as he had nearly everyday for the past three weeks, at a table in a mansion with a free human mage teaching him to read.

This dream was becoming stranger with each day, and with that same growing strangeness was an increasing sense of reality and tangibility that Leto could not shake, could not succeed in ignoring.

This was becoming real for him, and it was terrifying.

And perhaps even...pleasant.

“Here; something new to practice with...” Anders' sleepy voice cut into his thoughts, and Leto felt his back stiffen when their knees bumped as the other man shifted his chair closer to place a freshly torn bit of parchment over the smudged alphabet chart he had been failing to concentrate on.

It was an addition to a sheaf of messages and words written for him by the two mages intent on tutoring an illiterate slave, as well as a few added by their other oddly assembled companions in passing.

Stained napkins from the Hanged Man with messages scratched down by Isabela (at times accompanied by drawings, often lewd), folded bits of manuscript paper with the precise penning of Varric's experienced hand, elegantly written notes on the backs of Chantry pamphlets from Sebastian, single random words in large looping letters on mismatching squares of paper given by Merrill, old bits of paperwork on some of the miscellaneous goings-on in Kirkwall attributed by Aveline from her office, and even one or two scribbled out by an irritable Carver, watching his older brother play the part of instructor.

Anders pulled back as he leaned into his chair, eyes scanning over a copy of the translated text, a familiar look of bored frustration settling over his features.

Leto watched how quickly his eyes flew over the lines, drawing his own attention back to the newest message smoothed out under his hands. He quelled the usual feeling of exasperation when the indecipherable words seemed to mock him for his agonizingly slow interpretations.

The first word, however, was easy. His own name: L,E,T,O.

These letters were now so recognizable to him that he was able to clumsily emulate them with a quill and ink, but he was not going to give in to the urge to repeat the process of penning them on these papers.

Leto did not necessarily agree with these lessons, but he found himself keeping these notes carefully unblemished, preserving them with a close attention. These pages on different types and shapes of paper that had _his_ name written on them. He could not fight the sense that they _belonged_ to him...

_Except that possessions are incapable of ownership._

He tried not to dwell on these thoughts.

As with all the little notes from the blonde mage, Leto's name was written at the top for the purpose of showing that it was addressed to him. At the very bottom, after the body of the message itself, was the name of the composer...

A,N,D,E,R,S.

_Anders._

Leto's lips twitched into an almost smile, chest tightening in a way that always confused him when he read that name.

Another thing he would find himself determined to ignore.

His concentration was broken once again, this time by the sound of the estate's library door being opened with a emphatic swing, revealing a winded looking Carver and Hawke. The elder brother's eyes were bright above a wide set grin, one with which Leto linked to his many self-proclaimed 'brilliant' ideas and plans.

The door was quickly pulled shut behind them, though he caught a glimpse of the elven servant, Orana, peeking at the brothers with a quietly curious concern as she went about her household duties for the morning.

Anders' returning grin was almost apprehensive, but it was still a grin. “You two look like a pair of cats with a dozen mice suddenly at your feet.”

“We've got a lead.” Hawke announced, crossing the room in a few quick strides.

“A lead? On the artifacts?” Anders asked as the other mage settled himself at the head of the table. Carver followed, but remained standing with his arms crossed.

“No, nothing to do with that.” Hawke said with a dismissive wave of his hand as if they had not spent the last three weeks laboring over said artifacts.

“Then – you've found something out?” Anders sat up straighter in his seat, noticeably showing more interest when Hawke nodded.

“Aveline just let it slip!” Hawke said triumphantly. “While out on patrol, Carver was with her.”

“ _Aveline_? How'd you manage that?” Anders sounded almost impressed, twisting in his seat to get a better view of the younger Hawke brother.

Carver shrugged, but the smile he was fighting to keep from his face was smug. “Well, we ran into that guardsman, Donnic. Whenever she's around him she starts acting strange.”

Leto frowned while he listened, knowing exactly what had the three of them so excited.

The secrets.

The discussions and theories they had about the details that were being kept from them by the others had begun with their work on the translations. The four of them would be left alone, no one coming into the library as they activated the chest over and over, for fear of being affected by it's magic. And no one to hear their almost conspiratorial accusations.

They were keeping things from them. Important things, details about their lives that obviously held enough weight for them to flat out refuse to answer when prompted.

Things that Leto thought better left alone.

“What was it?” Anders asked. “Something to do with your father? Bethany?” The mage raised his eyebrows, flashing his crooked smile. “A certain valiant Grey Warden healer?”

Leto was grateful that Anders had not mentioned him, knowing that he had made it clear that he had no interest in knowing about –

“No, not us. Fenris.” Carver said impatiently, his words dissipating any gratitude Leto had felt and replacing it with a hollow sensation settling in his stomach.

Leto had not asked any questions about Fenris, not bothering, not wanting to know. He found that the curiosity at the back of his mind about the fugitive the easiest of his troubled thoughts to ignore; as it was often accompanied by that hollow dread. Rather than the warmth his other impermissible thoughts of honey-colored eyes and the growing contentment he felt with each morning waking in Kirkwall.

He could feel those golden eyes on him now, but he did not meet them.

Leto had not asked about Fenris, but that had not stopped the two mages at the table from asking in his stead.

“Well?” Anders prompted, looking away from him in favor of Hawke.

“It's the mansion.” Hawke said hurriedly. “Carver knows where it is.”

Anders eyes widened. “Fenris' mansion?”

Leto grimaced. _Fenris' mansion._

He had not inquired after where Fenris lived here in Kirkwall. Hawke was the one that had asked first, but Aveline had brushed off the question as had Varric when Anders had asked him next.

The blonde mage had more success one night the week before while playing Diamondback in the Hanged Man, teasing Merrill, distracting her before slipping the question in causally, delighting when she let slip that Fenris lived in a mansion ( _a mansion of all things)_ by himself. She had also felt the need to add that she had often worried about how lonely he must have been. After that incident, Isabela had watched Anders and Hawke carefully anytime they conversed with the Dalish mage for the rest of the night.

“She and the other guard were talking about the mansion.” Carver continued. “That Donnic fellow, he actually pointed to it, I saw it myself. Aveline didn't even react, it was like she forgot I was standing right there.”

“But that's brilliant, isn't it?” Anders said, pushing the parchment he had been studying aside and pressing back in his chair to stand. “You could take us there now. It could have information for us, those documents Varric and Isabela cleared out of your writing desk.”

Hawke nodded. “We've looked around this estate and found nothing. Varric's suite, your clinic – if they don't want us going to the mansion, perhaps it has some answers.”

Carver's arms uncrossed and his perpetual scowl softened. “If Mother refuses to tell us what's going on with Bethany and Father, we'll find out ourselves.” He shook his head. “I just don't believe that Father would travel back to Ferelden without us, even if it's just for a few weeks.” The boy passed a look in his elder brother's direction. “Certainly not without _you,_ in any event.”

Hawke stood as well, and rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Carver. You know that isn't true.” He smirked. “You're forgetting how much he loves Mother.”

Carver scowled. “Right.”

Hawke yanked his younger brother against him with a hook of his arm around the smaller boy's neck. “Shut it, you whiny prat. Father loves you more than any other sane person could.”

“I have a hard time believing any father of you two is 'sane'.” Anders joked. Leto reluctantly followed their lead and stood as well, coming to stand next to the mage.

“Alright, then Carver.” Anders nodded to the door of the library as he lifted his staff from where he had set it against a bookshelf. “Hawke and I will get us all out as unnoticeable as we can can manage, but from there, we follow your lead.”

Carver struggled his way out of his older brother's hold, his cheeks a bit red. This time around he failed at fighting off his smile.

\- - -

Anders had walked passed this door before, hidden as it was in a corner near the Kirkwall Chantry in Hightown.

He stood behind Hawke and Carver, the two of them bent down working the lock as best a mage and warrior-in-training could, with no where near the expertise of someone like Isabela or Varric.

Chancing a glance to his left, he saw that Leto was habitually studying his feet. The elf had said virtually nothing during their trip from the Amell estate, the four of them sneaking out before that sweet girl Orana or the Hawke matriarch could catch on.

He knew that Leto did not want to do this; and Anders could not help but feel guilty as he watched the other man practically emanating waves of tension.

“You all right?” Anders offered in a lowered tone, sidling himself closer.

The warrior tensed, but did not move away. Anders was pleased when green eyes were lifted to meet his, and when the other man nodded with the barest movement of his head. He tried not to read too much into these small actions, but he thought that perhaps the two of them had developed a certain trust over the past weeks together.

He was not, however, foolish enough to ignore the possibility that this might just be wishful thinking on his part.

Isabela, charming woman that she was, insisted on 'coaching' him whenever he and the pirate were alone together, on how best to 'win Leto's heart'.

Anders forced away a grimace at the thought.

He had developed a slight fixation on the elf perhaps, yes. A bit of a crush...

But it really wasn't his place to act on these feelings. Leto did not need someone like him confusing his life even further, the man had more than enough to process with his new life without Anders adding any unwanted feelings.

And Anders truthfully did not know what it was that he could even offer...

He had only one 'relationship' as reference, and it was hardly that with the rules, constrains, and exaction that came with falling in love under the thumb of the Chantry and its Templars. A game to them, and they thought nothing of pulling Karl and him apart in favor of tightening that control, reinforcing their leash. After that he had bedded various partners, but they were all just casual dalliances.

Anders would never have anything 'casual' with Leto, and he did not want anything of that sort...

He also did not want to explore what it was that he felt for the elf; who he would see each night he went to sleep and morning he woke, laying just feet from him. Whose hand he wished he could maybe for a moment wrap in his, and perhaps even chance to pull closer. Whose rare smiles and laughter made him want to hide his face for fear of revealing just what it was he refused to examine too closely.

The elf that he might just be falling for.

“That's – good.” Anders eventually managed to offer lamely, clearing his throat. He felt heat tracing its way up his throat and ears. He stepped carefully away from Leto and was going to offer to help the brothers when he noticed that one of Hawke's raised hand was engulfed in the blue frosty glow that accompanied a biting frost spell.

“What – “ Anders had barely begun his question when Hawke's hand had dropped and been followed by a crushing blow of his staff against the door, the newly frozen door knob shattering under a forceful push of magic.

Hawke sent Leto a look over his shoulder. “Sorry 'bout that. Didn't think you'd mind.”

Anders was surprised to see the warrior smile slightly and say, “Not at all. By all means, destroy what you like.”

Anders grinned at him, and turned to follow Carver and Hawke through the ruined door.

He had not known what to expect, exactly, but this was not it.

It seemed that the interior of the mansion already matched the door. There were holes in a cracking roof, sharp broken bits of glass coating a grimy floor, stained black and red with dried wine and blood; and to go along with said blood there were actual piles of _rotting corpses?_

“Andraste's flaming knickers!” Anders swore, stopping mid-step to gape at their surroundings. “This...This is...”

“It's bloody disgusting, it is.” Carver spat out, kicking a half shattered bottle of wine.

Anders saw Hawke throw Leto a glance, but the elf merely shrugged, face that impassive mask that Anders always hated to see. Perhaps at this moment though, it was an understandable reaction.

Just what was Fenris like?

Hawke shook his head. “Never mind the state of the place. Let's look around, see what we can manage to find out.” The other mage led them through the desolate foyer into an equally decaying open space with matching corpses and holes in the ceiling.

Anders made his way carefully over the crushed glass, but didn't bother to avoid stepping on the mushrooms and clumps of weeds that were growing in the cracks of what was obviously once an opulently paved stone floor.

“Suppose it won't matter too much if we _do_ keep destroying things.” Anders said over his shoulder to Leto.

“Yes, it would seem Leto and Fenris have that in common.” Hawke said, converging on the table set next to a fire place, searching for anything of note.

Anders bit his lip, knowing that Leto had likely not appreciated that comment. The elf gave no reply, standing near the entrance of the room and making no move to explore further.

After following Carver through another door, Anders veered off in his own direction, surprised by the strange maze-like structure of the building. It did not feel very much like a home.

When he found himself in a study of some sort, he decided this was a good place to start if any. There were large chests and coffers lining the walls, all open and emptied of any content that may have once occupied them. At the center of the back wall was a desk, documents laying neatly stacked, seemingly untouched.

Anders wondered not for the first time if Fenris knew how to read. And if not, to who did these letters and books belong?

He pulled the wide-backed red velvet chair out from the desk and nudged it out of his way with his foot. Standing at the center, he scanned a few letters, documents, and files; not finding even one name he recognized.

Most of the letters were addressed to some man named Danarius, though a few were written and signed by him. He could see that some of the books and documents were based around magical theory, to his surprise.

Anders gathered most of the letters up and after a few wrong turns and retracing of his steps, made his way back to the main room to see what the others had found.

Carver was sitting at the table, feet propped up and arms behind his back, looking perturbed. Hawke was standing near his brother with a book open in his hand. They looked up when Anders walked in, but his eyes were busy searching for Leto.

The warrior had not moved from his spot by the door, and Anders frowned.

“What're those you've got? Find anything besides wine and mushrooms?” Hawke asked, pulling his attention back to him.

Anders nodded, handing the letters to Hawke. “Nothing that makes any sense, or that mentions us. Just someone with some lost property; some sort of wolf. And a bit about the Qunari.”

“A lost wolf and the Qunari?” Carver asked, his own legs following the front legs of his tilted back chair to the floor with a loud resonating smack. “This is ridiculous – there's nothing here.”

Anders looked to Leto. “You wouldn't happen to know anything about a missing wolf?”

Leto was in the middle of shaking his head no when Hawke followed up with a question of his own.

“What about someone named Danarius?”

Anders' eyes widened when he saw Leto visibly hunch in on himself as if he'd taken a blow to the stomach.

  
“Leto – ?” Anders took a few steps toward him, shocked to see that the elf's hands were trembling.

“Do you know him, then?” Carver asked tactlessly, not seeming to notice at all how Leto had been affected. “I found some sort of property right upstairs, I think 'Danarius' is the owner of this place, or he was at any rate.”

Leto's chest was rising and falling in uneven intervals, and Anders went to close the distance between them, casting out his magic. He fought back the unease that had settled itself in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the impassive warrior so obviously terrified by just a name.

“Hey...” Anders sent a calming burst of warm magic out as he rested his palms lightly on the elf's drawn in shoulders.

When Leto raised his arms and shoved his palms against Anders' chest with enough force to stagger him back, Anders hands dropped limply at his side. The unease in the pit of his stomach curled itself into something painful. “I – I'm sorry, I didn't...”

Leto looked up in sudden realization, looking so terribly lost. “Anders, I...”

Anders felt his heart constrict, feeling a little helpless, not knowing what to do, what to say.

“Leto, who is Danarius?” Hawke asked from behind Anders, closer than he had been a moment ago, making his way over to them unnoticed by the pair.

There was no time for an answer, though it did not appear as though Leto was readying himself to give one.

The door at the front of the estate one room over had been wrenched open with an obvious force.

“Maker's breath, we're in trouble.” Carver grumbled, coming to his feet.

“Oh, I think it's a little more than trouble you've found yourself in boy.”

The four of them froze simultaneously at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

“Been watching this place for weeks,” The voice went on, a woman's. She stepped into the room, flanked by three humans and one elf, all armed. “Waiting for Danarius' wolf to make its return.”

“Wolf?” Hawke asked, hands reaching for his staff. “We don't even know what you're talking about. Who are you?”

The woman didn't bother reaching for her own staff strapped at her back. She laughed, a humorless, shrill sound.“Yet here we are, four little thieves and no wolf to be found.” She let out a long sigh. “Perhaps if you have any information about the missing property, I might just spare you.”

Anders was getting ready for a witty retort of his own, fear as always making him too snarky for his own good. But his mouth twisted itself in shock instead.  
Leto had dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.

“Leto – what in Andraste's name are you – ?” Anders demanded, heart pounding too loudly in his ears.

The woman raised her brows. “My, giving up so easily? Wise decision - though, not any fun.” She looked at Hawke, Anders, and Carver, all still clutching their weapons. “Best to follow his lead, children. You have no chance against an Altus mage from the Imperium.”

_Altus mage._

“You're Tevinter?” Hawke asked, and Anders realized how familiar her accent was to him.

“Question time is over, boys.”

Without any further signal, the four that stood beside her surged forward with their weapons raised.

\- - -

_They are losing._

Leto could hear as much from where he knelt, eyes trained on the floor.

When he heard Carver's cry of pain, his own fingers trembled, but he did not move.

Hawke was shouting, his magic rocking the mansion from its very foundation as he fought to protect his brother.

Two bodies had fallen, but Leto did not know whose.

“Kill the mages,” He heard the Altus demand, her voice was almost bored, but held an obvious edge of impatience. “We will take the other two alive and offer them as gifts for our continued failure.”

“ _No!_ ” Hawke's voice shouted, and Leto shuddered, nerves prickling with the rushing blood from his pounding heart. “Get away from my – “

There was a loud smack and Leto felt his eyes drag up a fraction in time to see Garrett Hawke fall to the floor, the hilt of a massive sword having met the back of his head.

Anders thrashed in the hold another human had on him, and Leto's breath caught when the blonde managed to yank himself free, lightning cracking from his hands with surprising force to meet the man that knocked out Hawke in the face and chest, blasting him back to slump onto the ground.

Anders stood alone against two remaining warriors, and the Altus mage.

He was panting, his mana clearly having run out far before that last arch of lightning magic.

The Altus smiled at him, pulling her staff from behind her back. “I think it's time we end this little game. Though you've managed to entertain me.”

She raised her staff, leveling it at Anders' heart.

Leto did not feel the movement of his own body, but he found himself standing between them with his sword in hand.

The Altus regarded him with surprise, and obvious irritation. “Did I not just say the game was over?”

Leto did not reply, did not know if he could. What could he say to this Altus, his sword raised against her?

_What was he doing?_

A shield was cast over him, and his back stiffened when he heard Anders' shaky, pained intake of breath behind him. The mage was using magic he could only pull from himself by cannibalizing his own body; to protect Leto.

Leto felt that tightness in his chest return, and he surged forward, his sword swinging in an a wide arch around him as the two warriors rushed him from either side. He made quick work of their deaths; ending their lives with a few easy strokes of his sword.

With their bodies on the floor, he turned his eyes to the Altus, stilling the trembling in his hands with a tight grip on his sword hilt.

Her eyes were wide, and she no longer appeared bored.

“Well. Aren't you a well-trained elf.” She swept her staff out, gathering the blood of her fallen slaves and lackeys as it rushed to meet the head. “A shame I'll have to kill you for showing disobedience.”

Leto was momentarily frozen by her words, mind battling against itself.

He had taken too long to come back to himself, his sword coming up with barely enough time to block the assault of two newly manifested Shades.

Behind them, he could see the Altus gathering a swirling pool of blood magic into a translucent barrier around her, watching him fight off the demons with a satisfied smirk.

As he sliced one of them down, the other was met with a bright ball of flame before it could land its blow on Leto, shrieking with an unearthly howl as it slumped to the floor.

Leto looked back to see Anders on his knees, leaning against his staff and panting.

_He is killing himself._

Turning back to the Altus, Leto took a stance directly in front of his fallen companions.

Without waiting to hear the taunting words the Altus no doubt had prepared for him, Leto flung himself into the air, bringing his weight down against his sword with a powerful blow to shatter the barrier, twirling his body back to slice his sword into her unarmored flesh.

She had no means with which to shriek or scream, her throat sliced open and spraying blood as she grasped blindly at the gaping wound.

Leto could not look away, eyes locked on the life that faded from her contorted face...

When she was dead, Leto felt his sword slide from his fingers, his chest seeming to seize in on itself.

A member of the Imperium. An Altus mage.

_He had killed her._

“Leto.”

He turned at the sound of Hawke's voice, surprised into movement.

Hawke and Carver were standing, both visibly wounded and shaken, the elder brother holding a healing potion out to him.

_How long had he stood there?_

Anders was laying with his eyes closed, head resting on one of Hawke's bags.

That pressure in his chest squeezed painfully. “Is he – “ His voice was hoarse, and shaking.

“He'll be fine, Leto...Here, take this.” Hawke still held out the red liquid.

Leto could not find his voice again, taking a step away from the potion and the hand that extended it, taking still more steps away from the brothers themselves, from Anders' still form on the floor.

He somehow made his way into the foyer and toward the door, yanking it open with more force than he had intended. The last thing he heard before the it swung closed behind his fleeing steps, feet sticky with blood, was a carrying groan from Carver.

“Maker, Aveline is going to _kill_ us.”


	12. Mutual Attraction

\- - -

 

The first thing that Anders registered as he came back to himself, was the smell.

It was a warm scent. Laced with the heady bite of herbs and spices swirling at the edge of his consciousness, pulling at his mind as they registered: embrium, elfroot, spindelweed, and...something he did not recognize by name, but by its almost smokey tinge.

It was the smell of a spice that Orana used on occasion in her delicious cooking and baking; in some of the many dishes that she threw together in so little time, as if by magic. Anders always asking after the unfamiliar, the foreign, always quick to compliment and to flatter the lovely girl as she offers him a small smile and answers in that now familiar accent of hers, that the food, that the spice: is Tevinter. Then she lowers her gaze, schools her features to blankness like...

Anders sat up too quickly, his head protesting the motion with a sharp shot of pain from his temples to the backs of his focusing eyes. His heart seemed to hum with its quickened pace as a late shock of adrenaline settled over him, and he licked his chapped lips before opening his mouth to call the name that that warm scent brought to mind.

“Leto?”

There were hands on his shoulders, pressing him back into the soft surface of a bed, and Hawke's face hovered a yard above him, along with Orana's, her wide eyes set with worry. Carver and Merrill were standing just behind them, at the edge of his vision.

"Anders, how are you feeling?” Hawke asked, and Anders could feel the other mage's magic.

Anders tried to pull himself up, tried to push the hands away. He ignored the question, “Leto...Is he...Where is he?” His voice was hoarse, coming out as a rasp.

Hawke looked away from him to someone he could not see, his expression holding enough unease to cause the anxious pounding of Anders heart to stutter in his chest. 

“Is he all right?” Anders shook the other mage's hands from his shoulders and yanked off the heavy blankets covering his body. “Is he injured?”

“Anders – you should lay back down.” Merill advised in her soft voice, “You've been out cold for hours...”

“I have?” Anders pushed himself from the bed, rubbing his temples as the pain that spiked at the movement, his fingers lighting blue to press tendrils of healing into his throbbing head.

Varric and Sebastian were standing near a door that Anders recognized as the one leading to Hawke's bedroom.

They were back at the Amell estate mansion.

“What happened?” Anders asked slowly, looking between the faces gathered in Hawke's bedroom, pulled between his anxiousness and a growing irritation at their silence.

“We carried you back here, you wouldn't wake up.” Hawke finally offered after a moment. “Carver went to find Merrill; her and Orana have been looking after you.”

Anders shook his head, as if to clear it of the aching. “The last I can remember is that crazy blood mage going down...” He fixed the other mage with a imploring look. “Where – “

His question was cut off by a pounding press of steel on wood as the door to the bedroom was forced opened to admit a line of armored figures. Aveline, followed by the guard Donnic and one that Anders did not recognize.

“Nothing, not even a lead.” Aveline said, addressing Varric in a tired tone, “We've just come from the Docks.”

The unknown guard nodded. “No sign of any dark-haired elves in black leather and pointy armor. On or off any ships.”

Donnic looked to Varric. “Any luck on your end?”

The dwarf shot a glance to Anders, who was standing with a frozen grip on his throat at their words, before turning back to answer, “No, no word from Isabela or any of my contacts yet...But it can't be long until I do. He has to be somewhere in Kirkwall – and if anyone can find something missing in this city, it's me.”

Anders looked away from them, scanning the room for – _there._

His body was sore, aching, but he ignored it. He crossed the floor in a few shaky strides that grew more steady with each step, and wrapped his hand around the red bindings woven over the handle of his staff.

“Anders, I know you're worried – we all are. But you're still injured. You can't just go running around Kirkwall at night.” Hawke said as he followed after him. “It's too – “

“Dangerous?” Anders countered, eyes flashing. “Yes, you're right. It _is_ dangerous. There are thugs, the Carta, mad scavengers,” He met the other mage's eyes, “and _slavers._ ”

"I see that Anders is awake.” Aveline said drly, crossing her arms.

Anders went to stand directly in front of her, meeting her eyes with no small amount of difficulty. “Leto is missing?”

Donnic and other guard exchanged looks behind her, but Anders' concentrated on Aveline's hardened expression.

She nodded. “Yes, he is missing. And I know that you want to go looking for him - "

“Not 'want' to – I am _going_ to, regardless of what anyone – “

“ – and we'd be grateful of the help.” She finished, voice raising over him until he shut his mouth.

“You – what?” Anders' eyes widened. Had he heard that wrong?

“What you four did was _unbelievably_ idiotic.” Aveline snapped, quickly wiping off the small smile that had been forming on his face. “But – that can wait. Leto needs us, and we could use you.”

Varric nodded, coming to stand beside her. “We know Fenris as well as anyone can manage to. But Leto is different. And I'd say _you_ are the one he's gotten closest to – as hard as _that_ is to believe.”

Anders' felt his hand constrict more tightly around the handle of his staff. He wanted to believe that. Wanted to think that Leto trusted him, that they were somehow close...but...

There were many eyes on him, and the expectation in them made him want to run from the room. Instead, he squared his shoulders and glanced back at where Hawke stood, seeking his eyes above all else.

Hawke offered him his charming smile. “You heard the dwarf – what are you waiting for?”

Anders did not have to be told twice.

\- - -

Leto was not sure how he had ended up here; laid out on his back over this uneven cot in the darkness of the empty Darktown clinic, moonlight casting lines of light through the breaks in the ragged curtain drawn to separate this small alcove from the outer section where healing would have taken place.

After having stepped out into the streets of Hightown hours before, Leto had simply not stopped walking. His feet carrying him with a deceivingly determined stride, staining the smooth cobbled streets with the blood of the Altus he had slain.

The Imperial citizen that a slave had murdered.

Leto closed his eyes to block out the suddenly too bright light, swallowing back the nausea that twisted his gut, and turned over in the cot, his cheek sliding over the soft stitching of embroidery on the old pillow under his head. He inhaled slowly, letting the scent of elfroot that seemed to cling to the fabric calm his addled nerves.

The unbidden path he had cut led him into Darktown, and it was not until his feet were clearing the final descending cascade of steps leading down into the dangerous lower district that he realized his only means of defense had been left in that decrepit mansion.

The mansion that belonged to his Master.

Leto grit his teeth, fighting passed the images making their way before his closed eyes: Hawke – falling with a harsh blow to his head while defending his brother. Anders – standing alone, refusing to yield, to bow to anyone, even in the face of death. The Altus – laying dead in Anders' place, at Leto's hand. Her blood streaming over tile to mix with the thick pool of her fallen subordinates.

His mother, smiling her soft smile – always smiling – even as tears stream down her dirty cheeks. Varania, identically green eyes meeting his in widening terror as an uncontrollable burst of light sparks over her hands for the first time.

The many faces of fellow slaves that he had slaughtered, some he had known, had spoken to, had lived his life alongside. Who had fought with their lives for a boon that Leto had won and ostensibly thrown away, as if the worth of their sacrifice was less than that of some selfish fugitive's 'freedom'.

His Master, lips twisting in a cruel smile, demons and blood and flesh and bile; the twisted bodies of former elven and human slaves splitting into abominations, the crushing press of his _magic_ stealing the very air from Leto's lungs, taking with it his ability to scream –

Leto was pushing his face too far into the old pillow, making it hard to breath. He lifted himself a fraction to draw in a pull of air, and opened his eyes, hoping to keep the unwanted images from haunting him by concentrating in on the physical objects around him in the darkened room.

It was not much of a room. There was little space for more than the bed that he was forcing himself to sit up in, to focus on the only other piece of furniture there. Except that it could hardly be considered furniture; a wooden crate beset with a few scant objects. A thick tome, a mix of gray and brown feathers, and a small pile of old folded papers; creased and stained with use, having been folded and unfolded often to be read over and over.

Leto pulled the pillow with him absently, wrapping the tattered softness under his arms and keeping the becalming elfroot touch of it near as he reached out to carefully lift one of the pages.

Angling the page so that it was hit with one of the circles of light that the moth-eaten curtain was casting, he kept the biting, scratching claws of his memories from his mind's eye by clearing his thoughts of anything but the alphabet chart he had been studying just that morning.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. Fine and broad-stroaking, making the letters blessedly easy to distinguish. The name written at the top was one he was expecting, the letters that spelled it ready in his mind.

  _Anders._

Leto's eyes scanned to the bottom of the note, searching for the author of this message that had an Anders that he did know reading again and again. 

There were two words, rather than one single name, separated by a line and a break in the page. Leto recognized one of the words in part, taking a minute to piece the word 'you' with the letters 'rs' together in his head until it registered: not a name, but a declaration.

_Yours._

Leto stared, confused by the returning tightness to his chest; both relieved that this was keeping him grounded from thoughts of Tevinter and alarmed by how ridiculous he was being.

So the Anders he did not know had someone that he cared deeply for, whose words of attachment he kept near his head as he slept. Someone that was likely a lover.

The Anders that hated the fugitive Fenris.

_Inconsequential._

Leto carefully folded the page, ignoring the name starting with an ornately swooping 'K' that followed the _'Yours',_ and went to return it atop the crate, his movement faltering at the sound of footsteps and the slide of a shoddy door that echoed as it was pulled open and shut.

The note fell from his startled hand, and he quickly snatched it from the ground before he somehow ruined or ripped it, and set it gingerly in it's place. 

His heart had sped up rapidly enough to feel each rhythmic pound, as he was frozen, half-in, half-out of the bed. He had no sword, no weapon with which to defend himself, the booted steps bringing the figure closer to where he crouched hidden from view. 

“Leto?”

Anders' breathy baritone served as a balm over his prickling nerves, bringing him back to movement, pulling his legs completely out of the cot to stand, reaching out to the curtain – only to stop short.

What could he say?

He had run away. Had left them unprotected. Had already failed in protecting them in order to obey the Altus, and nearly let them all die. Disobeyed to save them, murdering the Altus, a free citizen of the Tevinter Imperium whose throat he had split open...

Leto's brows drew together and down, forcing his eyes shut, conflicted, uncertain.

“Andraste's knickerweasels – _where are you_?” The mage swore softly, seemingly to himself, his voice holding a note of true panic.

“Anders.”

Leto saw the other man's jerking jump through one the tears of the curtain, and moved to step out into view, not wanting to startle him further. Anders was squinting in the low light of the clinic, hands on his raised staff. When he had focused on Leto's approaching form, his face transformed into one of relief.

“Leto. _Thank the Maker_ – where have you – “ He stopped, seeming to realize something. “Er, why are you holding my pillow?”

_He was?_

Leto's face warmed, knowing how ridiculous he must look clutching the other man's embroidered pillow to his chest like some sort of lost child.

“I...I don't know.” He admitted, and it was the truth. 

_Why had he walked here? Why did this shoddy clinic feel...safe?_

Anders came closer, looking him over. “Well, are you all right?”

Anders' magic cast over Leto's skin, warming him. Still disquieting, but different...

“You've managed to brilliantly scare the piss out of all of us, you know.”

Leto nodded, feeling more and more the chastised child. “I apologize. That was not my intention...” 

There was a stretch of silence, and he could sense the questions on the other man's mind as if he were shouting them at him, and he should be shouting, shouldn't he?

“I am sorry – “ Leto began, but wavered, trailing off. His eyes moved back and forth over the ground, searching for the words. “I didn't...I failed. I left you unprotected and - and you were all hurt...”

Anders was shaking his head, Leto could see the movement out of the corner of his eyes.

“Leto, you saved us.” There was a smile in his voice, and Leto looked up to see it, knowing he did not deserve it, that he did not deserve the certainty there or the words that followed. “I knew you would. I trust you.”

Leto shook his head, looking back to the ground, pulling the pillow from his chest to set it carefully on a nearby cot.

“You should not, I am...not available to offer...” _Friendship?_

Anders went on, cutting over his unfinished thought, “Don't feel guilty about me getting myself hurt, I'm fine. So are Hawke and Carver.”

“It was...foolish of you to push yourself so far,” Leto pointed out, saying so without thinking because that is what he did when speaking with this man.

Anders frowned. “Well, they were going to take you,” He argued, as if it were that simple. Good and bad. Friends and enemies. He added quickly, “And Carver. Take you and – “

“Gift us as objects?” Leto finished for him. “Anders, I am already an object. I am a slave – “

“ _No_.” Anders cut in sharply. “You are not. You haven't been a slave for weeks – and as for that 'object' rubbish; you have never been anything less than who you are. And you are...” Anders shook his head, seemingly running out of steam momentarily, before fixing Leto with a look that just barely managed to quell the rush of denial at the ready on his lips. “You are more than that.”

Leto was shaking his head minutely, but said nothing, his mind betraying him by painting images of a false freedom, of this foolishly idealistic mage telling him these beautiful lies.

“Anders.”

“Leto, I don't know what I would do if I – .”

Leto took a blind step backward, wanting to shut the words out before they reached his ears, before the other man continued.

“ _Anders._ ”

“ – _lost you_.” Anders finished without faltering, ignoring Leto's interruptions. “Not when I've only just found you...Not when I'm _free_ , and can feel these things without chains to yank me from them.” 

Leto took another step back, only to stumble on a discarded potion bottle, righting himself as swiftly as he could manage with his head spinning.

“I'm sorry,” Anders said quickly with an easy stride of his long legs to broach the distance, his hands reaching out as if to steady Leto, but stopping short of touching him. “I didn't...Forget I said that. Please. I don't mean to...to confuse things. Let's just pretend I said something witty, and call it a night?”

Leto finally allowed himself to look at the mage's face, unsure of what he was searching for. He should simply nod his head, should stop this conversation before it went too far, before he... 

“You...have developed 'feelings'?” Leto found himself prompting against his better judgment.

_Foolish._

But...

The letter ' _K_ ' taunted at the back of his mind. 

Anders was looking passed him, avoiding eye contact, and there was a telling pink tinge to his cheeks. “Well...yes. Like I said - I trust you.”

“You shouldn't.” Leto repeated with an automatic simplicity. “You should not trust me. Someone like you should not feel whatever it is you think you feel for someone like me.”

 Anders met his eyes then, his expression hardening. “Look, I understand if you find the attraction of a mage unappealing; that you find _me_ unappealing - fine. I get it. But that does not make my feelings any less genuine.”

His expression softened into something sad, but he was quick to cover it with a forced smile. “This is where I usually say something funny, yes?”

Leto did not respond, his mind having so foolishly focused on one word that it had no business being curious about.

_Attraction?_

And then he was opening his mouth, saying what was on his mind again.

“I do not find you unappealing, Anders.” _Worse and worse._ Leto bit hard into his lower lip.

Why could he not keep his mouth shut, something he had been trained to do his entire life? What had happened to his resolve over just four short weeks?

Why did the mage have to be looking at him like _that_?

Anders was openly staring, their proximity suddenly seeming more evident. “You...You don't?”

“No, I...” Leto paused. He was unsure if he could say this, convey what he felt. Words were not a subject with which he was well versed, and he did not want to appear ridiculous to the mage.

_You should not be saying any of this at all._

“I find myself...wanting things.” 

Anders' eyes widened at his admission, and when the mage finally spoke, it was in a whispered inquiry, “Wanting things?”

Leto could not meet those golden eyes, darkened to that honey-tone in the dim lighting. 

“Wanting to...” His voice dropped in volume, “...to touch you.” Leto finally manage to whisper back after a long moment battling against the shame that was coursing through him like a torrent attempting to wash away any traces of _want_ in someone like _him._

_Slaves do not have the ability to want, to offer. You are property. Object. Less than. Without purpose beyond that of your owner, your Master -_

“You can touch me.” Anders blurted out in a rush, pulling Leto back to him with the insistent tone of his voice. It did not sound like he was giving permission, rather it held an over eager quality that came across more as a benediction.

 _Touch me. Please, touch me._  

Leto felt that tightness in his chest return, twisting itself into an ache. 

He should not do this. Not _feel_ these things. 

But then he was reaching a hand out tentatively to the mage's face, stopping it for a moment to hang in the air, before he let himself trace the very tips of his fingers lightly along the other man's stubbled jawline. The compulsion to do so again had nagged at the back of his mind for weeks, and he shivered as the finely coarse hairs prickled against his skin. Anders let out a draw of breath at the contact, eyes closing for a quick moment, then opening again to focus on Leto's own.

The mage moved a careful, but deliberate step closer, maintaining the contact, but staying silent.

He was giving permission for more. _Asking_ for more, a need written plainly in his widened pupils, the rise and fall of his chest, the hopeful furrow of his brow, the faint flush that had graced his pale, lightly freckled skin at the touch of his fingers.

Leto was doing this to this mage? 

Anders, with his carefree charms, his easy wit, his warm magic. Beautiful, human, and _free_.

Anders wanted _him_?

Leto quelled the trembling in his fingers before moving them in a slow trail passed the rounded shell of Anders' ear to slide them gingerly along the strands of blonde hair held in a loose ponytail. His palm came to rest at the nape of the mage's neck, fingers tickled by the feathery tendrils that had escaped the leather cord.

They were very close now. So close that Leto could feel the heat of Anders' body even where their skin was not touching. He could smell him, his scent familiar in a way that distracted from the warm coiling and anxious twisting in his stomach that only served to confuse him; taking the tightness in his chest and thrusting up into his throat, threatening to choke him with it.

“Can – Can I touch you?” Anders asked, eyes searching his face. His voice was uncertain, almost abashed, so far from its usual confident sarcasm. Leto chose to concentrate on this almost endearing fact rather than the charge that the words had sent through him, that he was being _asked_ to be touched, rather than...

“If you would like.” He managed to answer back, voice betraying him by wavering the slightest bit, gaze slanting down for a moment, his raised hand remaining rested on the back of the other man's neck.

“Would you though? Like it – that is. If I...If I touched you? Because, I won't. If you...If you don't want me to – “  
  
“You are rambling, Anders...” Leto interrupted, letting a smile form over his features, unable to stop it, really. _All right, perhaps not just 'almost' endearing..._

Anders answering smile was near dazzling, eyes creasing at the edges and brow above them furrowing in such an honestly delighted way that Leto had to look away again, overwhelmed by the depth of feeling he thought he could detect.

It was almost too much, he did not know if he could...

But then there were fingers tracing through his hair, sending shivers and prickling goosebumps over his neck and down the expanse of his skin. The touch moved forward to his cheek, and he closed his eyes and leaned into it, thrilling at the sensation these hands brought him, so different from any press of skin he had ever endured. 

This was not enduring, though. It was...

It was gratifying. It was welcome; and it was something that he found he absolutely wanted more of. He wanted for Anders to press those hands over his neck, down his arms, to his chest and back. He wanted to touch this mage as well, to feel his skin under his hands, his body.

Leto shuddered when Anders' thumb trailed warm, soft touch over the length of his ear, and opened his eyes to find the other man studying his face, startled by the hunger he saw in his eyes, and the...affection.

His eyes, which were drawing down, focusing on Leto's mouth.

And then he was leaning down, and Leto...

“Anders.”

Anders immediately froze, blown eyes widening, flitting between Leto's in confusion.

“I – yes? Sorry, did I...”

Leto shook his head. “No, it's just...this is...unwise.” His voice was gruff, lower than usual. Embarrassing.

And there was that crooked smile, making his legs feel almost inadequate under his weight, his knees threatening to bend.

“Leto – can I kiss you?” Anders asked, bypassing his assertion completely, his voice was low as well, but sounded weightless.

_Happy._

Leto did not think himself capable of taking that from him, and nodded.

 “Yes.”

And then his own mouth was slanting up to meet Anders'; and he was clumsy, inexperienced, never having pressed his mouth to another. The warm pressure of lips and scraping of stubble spinning his head with the sensation, again and again. 

The hand poised on the mage's neck gripped harder as the coiling in his stomach heated, and when Anders' mouth parted to breathe an unsteady moan against him, Leto thought his chest might burst, or melt, or just –

Too soon Anders broke the contact of their lips with a gentle pull back, and Leto was completely embarrassed to hear himself actually _growl_ at the loss. Heat prickled at the tips of his ears.

And Anders laughed, Leto feeling it against the skin of his palm, and where their chests had come to lightly press together.

“Enjoyed that, did you?” He teased,voice breathless and thick with that familiar mocking pride he used when boasting of his many 'talents'. 

But Leto could see in his eyes the uncertainty, the hope. 

“I did.” Leto said without hesitation, without lying.

He had enjoyed that very much.

_Foolish._

But in that moment, it didn't seem to matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally moving along!


	13. Courting Practices

\- - -

 

The Hanged Man was in full swing that night, its patrons the usual colorful mix of the dodgiest of scoundrels to the heaviest of drinkers. The type of folk that Anders knew were a far cry from 'decent' or 'upstanding'; but that were always a refreshing break from the residents of Hightown he so often encountered spending his days at the Amell estate. He was quickly learning that the members of the Hawke family were the only exception to his growing aversion to nobles and the wealthy.

Lowtown and its inhabitants had an honesty about them. This type of honesty wasn't always pretty (more often not), and it might just result in injuries, theft, and bar brawls; but these were acts not hiding behind the pretty front of nobility, feigning innocence from crime.

Anders generally had an appreciation for this forthright quality of Lowtown; but tonight these plainspoken residents might just drive him mad.

"No shit? You and Broody – you kissed?"

"Describe it; in _complete_ detail, sweetness. Was there tongue? How _much_ tongue?"

"Oh, lethallin, how lovely! Did your tummy get all cotton-filled and feathery feeling?"

Anders grimaced, scowling at the amber liquid swirling in his near empty tankard, blaming the alcohol buzzing through his system for the grievous error he had made in telling these three ne-er-do-well Lowtown dwellers what had taken place in the Darktown clinic the night before.

“So, what happened after that, Blondie?” Varric asked, his eyes focused down on the parchment under his hands as he wrote what Anders could only hope to Andraste's impressive bosom was completely business related and nothing to do with himself or his foolishly big mouth.

“Nothing.” He very nearly snapped, ignoring Isabela's inappropriate tongue-questions and Merrill's silly babbles. “You lot showed up and ruined the sodding moment.”

Leto had leapt away from him so fast that Anders thought he had lit his own hands with magically called fire and burned the other man. When a small search party came bursting into the clinic, the elf had become quiet, not offering himself up for conversation the rest of the night.

Though with Aveline's continued shouting lecture from Darktown back to Hightown, even Anders was hard pressed to get a word in edge wise. He absently brought a hand up to rub the sore spot on his ear she had twisted with her metal gauntlets.

And there he sat the very next night – Leto having brushed off every attempt at talking and seemingly jumping at the chance to accompany Hawke, Aveline, and Sebastian on some errand that brought him (in Anders view) as far from him as physically possible – at a table in the Hanged Man drinking more than he should, and pouring his heart out in an effort to gain some advice.

But with Varric recording every word, Isabela practically bursting with innuendos, and Merrill offering cooing sighs and words that made little sense; Anders was nearly certain he had made a very large mistake.

“I just – I need some advice,” Anders said, trying for confidence but coming across a bit more pleading. “I'm not so sure that he...” That he what? Leto had seemed like he very much enjoyed kissing Anders. Had even said as much. But as soon as it was over it was like he closed himself completely off, like it had never happened.

Perhaps he...regretted it?

Anders sighed, rubbing his hand over a stubbled cheek out of habit.

“Maybe you came on a little strong?” Varric offered. “Broody can't be too used to declarations of affection – slave and all.”

“What was it you said to him again? ' _I don't know what I would do if I lost you_?'” Isabela recited, quite melodramatically, making Anders' face flush and prickle.

Maker, had he really been so incredibly tactless?

Anders studied the hands wrapped around his dripping glass of ale, puzzling over his words, his behavior.

He was normally so bloody _good_ at this. The most charming mage in Kinloch Hold, for Andraste's sake!

His cleverly constructed wit could turn even the most dour of Enchanter's criticisms into half-hearted forewarnings, often followed by a reluctant laugh, maybe even a bit of praise.

His fetching smiles and tactfully worded compliments never failed to earn him a proper reaction; from lovely ladies and dashing gentlemen alike. Reactions that ranged from the smallest of giggles and blushes to – well. He was certainly no stranger to fleeting moments of passion...

Anders had always believed in his ability to charm, to seduce, to convince.

But with Leto...it was as though every personal success he had previously attained was thrown from his mind, and he was left blank and clumsy; not even knowing where to begin. Every compliment went completely ignored. Every attempt at flirtation bypassed entirely. Every single time he managed to break through that maddening mask the elf wore, trying to tease a smile, he was met with irritation.

And just when he's utterly convinced that the other man wants nothing to do with him; not interested in some foolish mage that did nothing but nettle and prod...The elf would offer a smile when he wasn't even trying for a reaction, his brilliant green eyes would be watching him when he wasn't paying any attention, he would be clutching his pillow and telling him in that irresistibly rich voice that he wanted to _touch him._ His fingers and hands would start doing just that, and then his mouth would...

Anders brought the tankard up and took a long pull, hoping the burn of the alcohol might clear his head.

Maker's breath – _why was this so bloody difficult?_

With Karl things had always been so easy. They had just...happened, an effortless sort of attraction that became inevitable once it had begun. They were young, finding in each other what they thought impossible in the Circle: someone to trust, to turn to when it all became too much to bear.

And the Chantry had taken Karl away just when they had passed their Harrowings together, foolishly believing they were finally safe. Taking with him any sort of happiness to be had in that wretched tower.

Any grasp of what it meant to have a relationship that didn't begin and end with Circle politics and blighted Templars and the Chant of sodding Light.

“I need to know how to approach this,” Anders finally said after wrapping up the inner-monologue of his thoughts, surprised that the other three had left him to himself to think. “I don’t want to scare him off. I just...I've never taken things _slow_ before.”

Isabela shrugged one of her shoulders with a wink. “Don't look at me, sweet thing. I've about as much experience as you on taking anything 'slow'. Probably less.”

“Maybe try a gift?” Varric offered, not looking up from what he wrote. “Better than jumping him and trying to tear his clothes off.”

Anders made a face. “I would _never_ – “

“All right, so a gift. But – what?” Isabela interrupted. “What does Leto even like?”

"Hmm, well...Broody doesn’t really like much, does he?"

"He likes killing things?" Isabela suggested, and Anders wasn't sure if she was joking.

"Andraste's tits, Isabela. How does that help me?" Anders groused. "And he does not _like_ killing things - he's just...rather...good at it."

Isabela snickered into her tankard while Varric nodded encouragingly. "He is pretty good at killing things, isn't he Blondie? I'd lead with that."

Anders let his forehead fall into the crook of his arm with a groan. "I hate all of you."

More snickers followed.

"Oh, I know!" Merrill's excited exclamation drew his face back up, searching her eyes with an eagerness that should have embarrassed him.

"Yes?"

"Apples."

"Apples?" Anders parroted blankly. "What about them?"

"Oh, yes, of course, sorry." Merrill blathered, before clarifying. "Fenris likes apples."

"Hm...you're right Kitten, he does." Isabela said thoughtfully. "Though we can't know for sure if apples would go over well."

Merrill's brows knit. "But apples would be lovely to get for someone who enjoys eating them."

"No, no; don't you see? _Fenris_ likes apples. We don't know if Leto likes them."

Varric shook his head. "Why would one Broody not like apples if the other does? The liking of apples doesn't have anything to do with - "

"Enough with the bloody apples!" Anders snapped. "I am not going to give him an apple! What kind of statement would that make - giving him a piece of fruit? No, It has to be something,” He paused, searching for the words. “Something..."

" _Romantic_?" Isabela supplied readily, drawing the word out quite unnecessarily with a thick layer of mocking irony.

Anders scowled, but Merrill was nodding in agreement, clearly having missed the sarcasm. “Oh, yes. But I don't see why fruit can't be romantic. Maybe you could give him flowers? I love getting flowers. I could pick you some? There is such a beautiful collection of yellow roses in a patch of bushes in Hightown.”

“Daisy...those are in someone's garden. You haven't been sneaking into yards and picking other people flowers again, have you?” The dwarf didn't sound the least bit reproofed, his voice filled with an obvious amusement.

“Oh, dear.” Merrill glanced between Anders and Varric. “You don't think they minded do you? It's still very odd to think of bushes and trees belonging to individual people...”

Anders couldn't help but grin at the image. “That's all right, Merrill. I'm not so sure Leto would know what to do with a flower.”

Anders finished off his drink with a final swallow, settling in to listen to Merrill and Isabela discuss the many uses for flowers, his smile faltering when he realized he had no idea how to go about shopping for the elf, absently weighing the pros and cons of having one of the three sitting around him help him do so.

Unfortunately, the cons seemed to be winning out.

\- - -

As luck would have it, an opportunity that didn't involve Varric, Isabela, or Merrill presented itself to Anders the following afternoon.

“Lirene needs these today? Now?” Anders asked, his eyes rescanning over the message that a pair of ragged looking youths had delivered to him at the Amell esate.

One of them, a freckled human girl with broad brown eyes, nodded in earnest. “Yes, Healer. Things have been very ...busy, lately. With you gone.”

Anders felt a familiar twinge of guilt, and nodded. “Right, I understand.” He handed the note back to the fair-haired elven boy at her side. “Tell Lirene I'll pick these up and drop them off as soon as I can.”

Reaching into the pouch at his waist, Anders grabbed a few of the coins he had accumulated while playing cards the last few weeks, and pulled one of the girl's hands up to press the silver into her palm. “For your trouble.” He said, offering them a charming smile, unable to ignore the obvious looseness of their clothing over the jutting of bone.

When he had shut the door after their exclamations of thanks, he was faced with Leto hovering a few yards away, studying the floor quite intently. The bodyguard clearly having felt the need to ensure the Darktown urchins didn't pull a knife on him.

Anders nearly froze when he realized that this was the first time the two of them had been alone since...

But he didn't freeze, he cleared his throat, voicing the idea that this opportunity presented.

“Leto – would you like to go on a walk with me?”

Leto glanced up to meet his eyes, dark brows creasing. “Go on a...walk?”

Anders nodded, striding past where he stood to grab his staff from its place in the estate's library. “Yes, I need to go pick some things up for a friend of mine. Herbs, bandages, some things for her shop.” He tried not to seem too elated that the elf wasn't avoiding answering him completely.

Hawke was dozing in an oversized armchair in the corner of the library near the fire, Ruthless somehow joining him to perch impossibly over his lap, massive head tucked against his owner; both of them snoring quite obnoxiously. How the other mage managed to make it all seem adorable was beyond him.

Leto was waiting for him at the doorway, eyes unblinking. “You mean for us to sneak out without a word to anyone? Again?”

Anders shook his head quickly, not missing the unease in the elf's deep voice, knowing full well that what had happened in Fenris' mansion had shaken him.

“No, don't be silly. I doubt very much that Aveline was joking when she threatened to – well, you heard her. I rather like all my parts where they belong, thanks.” Anders muttered, heading into the kitchens.

Orana was meticulously slicing vegetables, no doubt for dinner that night. The knife she held paused in its rhythmic up and down motion as they walked in, and she was looking up at them with an easy eagerness to offer help where needed.

“Orana, can I ask a favor of you?”

\- - -

“I do not think this is one of your better plans, Anders.”

Anders couldn't stop himself from laughing lightly. “Is this you admitting I have any good ones, then?” He asked, hoping his voice held enough of its usual cheek to cover his nervousness. “Aveline never specified _who_ need accompany us,” he pointed out when Leto continued to look doubtful. “And we left a note. If anything goes amiss, they'll know just where to find us.”

Orana walked ahead of them, glancing back every few moments to make certain they were where they ought to be. Evidently she was taking her role as chaperon rather seriously.

“So...” Anders began after Leto offered no words to contradict him, wanting to start up some sort of conversation.

Wanting very much to somehow bridge the slightly awkward gap that had been set between them, to maybe get to the subject of...

“It's – rather nice out today, isn't it?”

_What?_

Did he really just comment on the bloody weather? _Honestly?_

Leto shrugged, eyes remaining forward and fixed on where Orana walked. “It is...fine.”

What was happening here? Anders knew that he was not at his most charming and polished when addressing this man in particular, but this blankness in his mind and nervous hum to his skin was beyond pushing it.

It was the kiss.

The kiss, and the look in those green eyes when he had touched him, the drop to that deep voice as he slid his fingers over impossibly smooth brown skin, the hard press of a firm hand at the back of his neck, the gasping growl as their lips parted that sent a jolt of arousal through his body.

The careful, deliberate avoidance that had followed.

This man had reduced Anders to a graceless, fumbling, besotted apprentice with just one kiss, and he didn't even have the decency to acknowledge what he had done!

_Why is this so bloody difficult?_

Leto's eyes widened as he gave Anders a startled look, his lips drawn down and open in apparent surprise.

Maker's balls, _had he said that out loud?!_

When words failed him, Anders shook his head and quickened his pace, offering only a hurried, “I think that stall has something on Lirene's list!” over his shoulder before jogging his way through the sparse crowd to stand at a hooded caravan-style stall that seemed to be selling the widest assortment of goods in the square.

His face was absolutely burning, and curses in Ander he had thought long lost to his memory were somehow making their way past his lips with absolute clarity.

“My, that's quite a vocabulary you have, Messere.”

Anders' head whipped up from the baubles and wares he hadn't actually been paying any attention to, finding the caravan's owner smiling at him with an evident mirth that the other man didn't even bother attempting to conceal.

It didn't take more than a glance to see that the merchant was Rivaini. His rich brown hair only a shade darker than his skin, highlighted by the shimmering gold jewelry decorating his face, neck, and hands.

Anders nodded, flashing him a quick smile that didn't last. “Just – not at my best today, it would seem...”

The Rivaini man didn't pry, for which Anders was grateful, busying himself with finding what supplies he could on display that Lirene had requested (and a few she hadn't that he knew would go appreciated) without further comment, ignoring his personal mortification.

It wasn't until he was digging into the pouch at his waist for coin, and pulling out a piece of parchment he could not remember having stored within it that he was brought back to his original plan.

Unfolding the paper, he found a rather crude drawing that had Isabela's penmanship written all over it; featuring what he could only assume was a scribbled representation of himself, naked, being presented to a black-haired elf as a gift, with a ribbon tied in a bow and wrapped around his...

Anders made quick work of ripping the parchment in half, crumpling the pieces up and shoving them back into his satchel. The merchant was watching with raised brows, his smile unwavering.

Right. A gift...

Chancing a quick glance behind him into the crowd, Anders caught sight of Leto standing near Orana a few stalls down, her basket being filled with fresh fruits, vegetables, and spices. When the warrior's eyes moved up in his direction, Anders could not be sure which one of them had looked away faster.

“Do you – have any apples?” Anders found himself asking, wanting to take the question back as soon as it had left his mouth.

Did he honestly think an apple would make up for his ineptitude?

The merchant's dark eyes had been looking past him, turning to refocus his attention with a crease to his cheeks as his smile widened. “Yes, yes, of course. I do indeed, the very finest array of colors and flavors found in various orchards from Nevarra to Orlais.” He motioned to a wide basket of fruit perched upon a barrel.

Opting for the safest choice, Anders lifted a round red piece, reaching to hand the man a copper only to find the Rivaini shaking his head.

“No, no. You take that,” The merchant indicated behind Anders with a nod, and he twisted to follow the man's gaze to where Leto stood, feeling his face flush. “I wish you luck, my friend.”

Anders took the parcel the man had wrapped his other items in under an arm and muttered a small (if not rather embarrassed) – “thanks”, turning to make his way back to where Orana and Leto were, clearly having finished gathering food for the Amell estate and waiting for him.

Their descent from Hightown to Lowtown began without words, Anders and Leto falling into step behind Orana who took the lead with a small nod, her basket newly filled with goods.

After a few moments of walking in silence, Anders went to offer the apple, only to find Leto looking at him.

“Anders...”

Anders paused, apple in hand.

“I – yes?”

“I understand that you would perhaps like to discuss...what happened the other night.” Leto said slowly, his face giving little away beyond his obvious unease.

Anders felt his palms prickle, and curled and uncurled the fingers of his free hand, the other raising with the apple.

“You've been avoiding me.” He pointed out against his better judgment, keeping his voice light and plastering on a smile, “I've been wondering if you were sparing my feelings when you said you had...enjoyed –“  _Kissing me._

Leto's brow twitched and he looked away, frowning. “I was not lying to you, Anders. Not when I told you I enjoyed...what we did. Nor when I insisted that it would be unwise for us to do so."

Anders twisted the apple in his hand, his fingers fidgeting over the sleek, red skin. “I am afraid I disagree.” He stated more confidently than he felt. “I was rather hoping we could – do it again.”

Leto reached a hand up and slid the tips of his gauntlets through his dark hair. “Anders...”

“In fact,” Anders began with his continued confidence, lifting the apple to hand it to the other man, “I have something – “ That confidence faltered with his words as the apple slipped from his outstretched hand.

Leto reached out and caught it before it hit the ground. He lifted it up, holding the apple out to him, the shiny red flesh somehow unmarred by the sharp tips of his gauntlets after being snatched from the air.

Anders wanted to curse. "No, it's...I got it for you.”

When Leto gave no indication of happiness, of even contentment, face remaining decidedly _blank_ ; Anders felt his heart sink.

Something must have shown on his face, because Leto's dark brows raised. "Something...wrong?"

Anders shook his head quickly. "That's not...It's just – do you like it?"

Leto looked back down at the round red fruit, his thumb trailing over the stem. "I am not sure. I have never eaten one before."

_Of course._

“Oh, er...” Anders sighed, reaching a hand up to slide over his stubbled chin. “Right.”

The soft crunch of apple drew his eyes back up to stare as Leto took his first tentative bite of the unknown fruit. The elf brought his arm up quickly, twisting his gauntlet-covered fist to swipe the bare underside of his hand over the trail of juice that had dripped from his mouth as he chewed.

And he was _smiling_ – his lips turned up the very slightest bit – but that was definitely a smile.

Anders knew he must look like a fool with his wide smile, but that realization didn't stop him from making more of a fool of himself, “It is customary, I've been told, to give gifts when courting someone.”

If Anders didn't know him better, he would have believed that Leto had nearly tripped.

“ _Courting_?” Leto repeated, with apparent difficulty, his face noticeably darkening.

Anders nodded, readjusting the package under his arm, feeling oddly buoyant. “Yeah. That's my intention. To court you.”

They went a few steps in silence, the other man seemingly simmering with some unsaid words, until he finally raised his voice, which was nearly unsteady.

“In Tevinter, courting is...What you are suggesting – it is _not..._ for someone like me.” Leto said with a careful deliberation, as if trying to reason with someone who was rather mad or slow.

“We are not in Tevinter, Leto.” Anders stated simply, sidling himself closer. “And I – “ He reached his hand out gingerly, letting it hover over Leto's for a few steps, before very carefully weaving their fingers together. “ – would like the opportunity to prove to you that this would not be the mistake you've convinced yourself."

Anders held his breath, his heart pounding too loudly in his throat, waiting for Leto to pull away...

But he didn't.

Leto glanced up at him through black fringe, brow furrowing slightly, his fingers readjusting in Anders' hold, but remaining.

Maker, but Anders wanted to kiss him again...

“You are...a very bizarre man, Anders.”

Anders shrugged, smile not likely to leave his face anytime soon. He moved a bit closer so that their shoulders nearly brushed with each step.

“Seeing as I don't hear any refusal, I'll just have to take that as a compliment.”


	14. Something More

\- - -

 

Leto did not know how to approach this situation.

Anders was absurd.

He was absurd; and he was obstinate, and gaudy, and more than a little ridiculous at times.

He was a mage. An apostate on the run from the South's Chantry and its templars, happy to treat it all like some game he was clever enough to come out on the winning side of by eluding recapture. Seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously. Joking at the most inappropriate of moments and rolling his eyes or laughing when pressured with responsibility or judgment.

But he was also...

Thoughtful, in his actions. And...disarmingly kind, in the most unexpected ways. He was passionate; even in his single-minded and incredibly unrealistic views of the world around him. Treating elven servants, human nobles, and even dirt-smeared street rats (more likely to bury a knife in his ribs than to return his smiles) with the same attention and respect as though social conventions were too far beyond his comprehension.

Or, rather, he ignored them entirely. Doing so in such a way that would result in a far harsher punishment in Tevinter society than the side-long looks and snide remarks the mage was met with here in Kirkwall.

He was very expressive, very open. With a maddening inability to keep himself in check; in term of running his mouth and...his feelings.

The other man was had become very obvious with his infatuation. A press of fingers resting on Leto's shoulder longer than necessary when he leaned in to recite the words written down for reading practice. Those same fingers purposefully brushing over Leto's skin as he passed him rolls and sheets of parchment, a playful smile in his eyes. The line of their legs connecting under the table, and an innocent raise to his brows when met with Leto's questioning looks.

And – _fasta vaas_ – he wouldn't stop holding Leto's hand. In _public,_ even.

Uncaring of social conventions indeed.

Though it was not, perhaps...without cause.

This was certainly a mutual attraction. One that Leto was hard pressed in ignoring or dismissing as fluke any longer with those lingering touches that seemed to burn into his skin and jolt down to his abdomen, settling that tightness he felt in his chest there for long after. As well as the memory of a soft press of lips...

Leto shook himself where he sat, legs drawn up in the library's arm chair to balance the alphabet chart and word cards he was very narrowly studying.

Anders was under some strange supposition that he was actually...courting him.

In Tevinter, courting was a meticulous process that involved not only the families in question to be joined, but also to an unspoken extent, the entire court and mageocracy itself. Even for the most lowly of citizens, it was a duty from birth to be properly married and contributing to the society through the union.

Never between elf and human. Unclean mix of blood. Never between two men or two women; because what purpose would that serve? No children to be had and no bloodlines to be cultivated with such matches, and if a Tevinter citizen was so inclined to pursue sexual gratification apart from a pre-choosen spouse: there was a simple enough solution...

Slaves.

Slaves were not courted. Slaves were used as tools in every aspect, and often bred much like livestock. Paired as their Masters saw fit in order to keep blood lines clean and traits alive through generations of labor and family use.

But what Anders was doing...What he considered 'courtship'; it was entirely different from Tevinter customs. Entirely different from what Leto had experienced as one of his Master's tools.

In the South, if one was not born of noble birth (and at times even that did not stop them) people were free to...pursue whomever they wish. There was no implied or unbreakable rule that separated attraction, sex, and relationship. There was also a shocking openness with affection.

Humans and elves still held many strong and dividing prejudices, but it was not unheard of or even so uncommon for them to mix openly, to perhaps even marry.

This was the world that Anders was used to, had grown up with to as far an extent that a Circle mage could. He was not looking for simple sexual gratification, he had actual...feelings. Wanted something beyond what Leto had come to expect from his place in life. Beyond even what most Magisters would come to expect from life in their mageocracy.

What Anders wanted was some form of - _closeness._ Of that affection that Leto understood very little of.

Such frivolous relationships did not, to his knowledge or experience, even exist in the Tevinter Imperium. Love was a concept too fleeting and without true use or measurable value. Too childlike, and upon reflection; so very Southern. A concept that Leto had never once applied to himself or any other he had met.

But perhaps...he had developed feelings as well.

Despite his better judgment. Despite the complete impossibility of even the implication for someone with no true self to form such a bond. Yet there it was, that tight feeling in his chest he could not quell, no matter how much he may reason with himself.

Ruthless gave a loud huff from his spot on the floor at the foot of the armchair, causing Leto to start and realize how warm his ears had become. The mabari's eyes were darting between Leto's feet and the floor; torn between his obvious want to jump upon the chair and his guilt over having been chastised only moments before for attempting to do so.

“You will not climb on me again,” Leto warned him absently, readjusting his papers and collecting his thoughts.

As for Anders 'courting' him...

The mage kept bringing him things.

Silly gifts accompanied by that hopeful smile, his honey eyes always so easy and honest in showing the fondness he had so mistakenly developed for a slave. He brought apples of every color and asked after his preferences, as if such a seemingly insignificant thing were truly important to him. A whetstone with which to sharpen and clean the blade that Leto carried; asking still more questions, always listening intently. A soft lambskin bound journal to practice penning his letters, the letters that Anders himself had taught him, taking the time to practice with him daily, never impatient, always willing to offer his bright smiles and ridiculous humor.

But – _to what end?_ What did Leto have to offer this mage?

They did not – for all intents and purposes in this inexplicable situation – truly even exist in this time. Hawke. Carver. Anders. Himself.

It was this fact alone that had allowed Leto to be so ludicrously...open. If this was all just a means to an empty end; what did it matter if he perhaps met and held the gazes of those that sought his attention? Learned a few letters, a few words? Defended those he had come to view as...comrades. Not out of obligation, out of duty or purpose; but because he would genuinely and willingly raise his sword to fight for their safety and survival?

What did it matter if he kissed a handsome human mage he had no real right to kiss?

And yet it _did_ matter. He would allow himself the smallest indulgences in giving in to these new found impulses, only to yank himself back to reality with a force that never ceased to leave his head spinning.

Because no matter how bizarre the circumstance, Leto knew - he _understood_ \- that he was nothing more than what he had always been.

A _slave._

Acting otherwise was leading him down a path that came dangerously close to one he viewed with a growing contempt he would feel rising at the very pit of his stomach.

 _He was_ not _Fenris._

Leto might not remember any of this soon; at any given moment this dream could become a forgotten second-hand tale for some selfish fugitive to write off as unimportant in his new, free life. Living in his Master's abandoned mansion, alone, doing nothing more with his stolen freedom than becoming drunk and smashing glass.

Being hated. By an Anders he himself would never know.

And who knew what else?

And – vishante kaffas – _who cared what the fugitive did._

 _Fenris_ would take this life back, this life that Leto could only have as some fleeting dream, and he would continue to _waste_ it. As effectively as he had wasted the lives of those Leto had slain in order to gain his family's freedom. His mother and Varania no doubt having been written off by the self-serving fool as he paved his new path of freedom over the very ground that Leto had given his own blood, his very self to see cleared.

“Maker, Leto, what have those letters ever done to you? You look as though they've leapt from the page and started spouting clever insults.”

Leto could not stop the pull of his lips at the sound of Anders' voice, so he opted to twist his mouth into a grimace to cover his immediate, responding smile. He also opted to ignore the warmth spreading in his chest.

"Do you need some help with something?” Anders asked, turning for a moment to slide his staff in its place against the bookshelf nearest the fire, next to Leto's sword and where his armor had been carefully placed. Leto noted that the mage looked rather exhausted, his posture drawn in, his golden eyes holding hours of work.

Here he was after laboring for a full day in that clinic of his - as he had started to do more and more over the past week - offering himself up for still more work in teaching a slave to read when he could be resting.

Leto wanted to demand the man go lie down in his makeshift bed not five yards away.

Instead, because it was not his place to demand anything of anyone, he drew his eyes down as he smoothed his alphabet chart and tried for a casual, friendly tone, “Where are Hawke and Carver?” Leto was not very good at sounding casual. Or at sounding any way at all, really. Showing emotion after a life of shielding it was...difficult.

But he knew, had noticed, that Anders would smile more when he did. When he tried. Leto did not entertain any actual ideas of encouraging this silly mage's attempts at 'courting' him, but that did not mean he did not covet that smile. Or the happiness that it implied. That Leto could offer him this, when he could offer little else.

“They went with Isabela and Varric to The Hanged Man. Something about a betting match that Isabela has going with that mad bloke that Varric calls the 'Talkative Man'.”

A soft thud followed the mage's words, and Leto glanced up to see Anders divesting himself of his feathered coat. “You remember him, right? Always on about some silly conspiracy or another. Honestly though, with what we're going through – I've half a mind to believe the tripe he spews.”

Leto tried not to notice how long his eyes were lingering over the lines of Anders' body under his flimsy tunic, concentrating instead on the round, yellow fruit that the mage had pulled from his coat and was currently holding out to him.

“This one's not too special. Some refugee in Darktown gave it me for treating a cough – says her sister has a farm in Ferelden and sends her crate fulls of them. Andraste's Golden, it's called.”

Leto reached out to take the apple without comment. Such a thing had become so common place between them over the past week that he could almost fight off the heat that crept its way up his throat.

When he had bitten into the apple a third time and the other man had not moved from his spot, Leto shot him a look. “You are doing it again.”

Why did the mage insist on watching him eat the damnable apples?

Anders chuckled, turning away as he bent down to unbuckle his boots. “D'you like it, then?”

“I always do. You need not concern yourself with the details.”

Anders finished kicking the boots off into the same corner he had draped his coat, arms reaching up over his head in a long stretch that popped along his joints. The tunic he wore pulled up to show pale, freckled hips and a light dusting of dark gold hair that dipped into the line of his trousers.

“Well, I _like_ the details, you know.”

Leto glanced quickly back to his alphabet chart, his fingers running over the minuscule scratches a quill had made in the parchment when etching the letter 'K', doing so without thought and out of habit.

He ignored Anders' assertion, finishing the apple and throwing the core to Ruthless, who caught it with a grateful snap of his massive jaws.

“I do not require assistance studying. You should sleep.”

Anders' answer was a drawn out yawn, but he did not turn and head for his bed.

Instead, when Leto finally looked back up from the chart, he found the mage doing a rather identical impression of the mabari hound that rested at his feet. Glancing back and forth between the floor and the overstuffed armchair he sat in, looking almost abashed.

After a pause, Leto said slowly, “You wish to join me in this chair.” Not an offer, but an observation.

Anders seemed to start as if caught, hand reaching to rub the back of his neck. “Oh, er – not if...”

He was blushing. Leto resisted the quirk to his lips at the sight.

“You are free to do so...if you would like.” He found himself saying, unsure of why the expression on the mage's face had such a pull on him.

Pulling him straight past his determination to stop encouraging this 'courtship'.

Delighted surprise colored Anders' features, and the mage's face transformed with his smile. After a moment to consider, he was edging closer with a press of his knee into the plush cushion, and Leto shifted to make room for him on the chair. A chair that was not large enough to accommodate two grown men without a certain amount of...proximity.

When Anders paused with his weight resting on his knee it resembled hesitation, but it was really a question; one that Leto could recognize, and understand – _Is this all right? Can I touch you?_ – Leto swallowed down the tightness in his throat, turning to place the chart and cards on a nearby stand before answering the unsaid words with the smallest nod of his head.

Anders closed in then, at first pressing against Leto with a restricted stiffness, but relaxing against him when Leto lifted an arm and draped it around the mage's shoulder. After this, the other man very nearly climbed into his lap, all long legs and grasping hands; bringing forth the image of Ruthless snuggling atop Hawke with a relentless ardor. Completely unaware of his bulk or size.

Leto struggled with himself for a stretch, body prickling with heat and his pulse too hard under his skin, feeling it all over at once – his chest, his throat, the tips of his fingers.

They had not been this close since that night in the clinic the week prior, and when Leto turned himself toward the mage, he imagined he could see this thought passing over Anders' face as well.

A silence followed – not awkward, but thick with unspoken thoughts and questions. Anders' hands bringing an active sensation to his skin, one resting on a bare arm, the other tentatively wrapped around his waist and somehow burning through the fabric of the black tunic he wore.

After spending his day in Darktown, Anders remarkably didn't carry the overwhelming scent of it on his skin. He smelled strongly of elfroot. And a mix of other biting herbs and laundered cotton bandages. As if physically pulled, Leto was leaning in to breathe him in.

Anders' body tensed against him, and Leto angled his face as he leaned forward so that their eyes could meet, feeling the hitch of the human's breathing by the jerk of the chest pressed under his hand, his breath ghosting over his cheeks.

“Have I convinced you, then?” Anders asked, his voice breathy and low, but with a teasing edge to it.

“Convinced me of what?” Leto deflected, keenly aware of what the mage implied, distracting himself with studying the lines and shadows on Anders' face, the light playing over his golden hair.

“That this is not some _mistake._ ”

Leto let his eyes continue tracing the details of the mage's face, counting the darker flecks of brown in his eyes.

It was, though.  _All of it._

Their play at courtship, his own play at freedom: summed up in one simple word – mistake.

The hand Leto had on Anders' shoulder found the back of his neck quickly, pulling him down the short distance so that Leto could press their lips together. Finding that he needed to commit the feel of the mage's mouth on his to memory, even if that was a precarious concept in their situation. Perhaps even more so because.

Anders' response was immediate, his arms tightening their hold to press their bodies closer, his lips parting a fraction against Leto's with a soft, needy sound. The noise seemed to roll its way down Leto's spine, combining with the hard scratch of stubble he had come to crave to send a thrill through him.

He wanted to pull more sounds from Anders, but he was unsure how. Bringing the hand splayed over the mage's chest to his face, Leto spread his fingers along his jaw to hold him steady as he pressed for more, hoping his inexperience with kissing was not too obvious or off putting.

If it was, Anders did not show it. He gripped them firmly together, meeting each press of their mouths with a clear eagerness, proving himself vocal with each soft break of lips bringing forth quick sighs and faint keens.

When Anders' tongue slid over his bottom lip, hot and soft, Leto felt his brow furrow at the foreign sensation. Trying not to show hesitance, he opened his mouth, fingers gripping more tightly at the mage's neck and jaw as Anders' pressed it inside to move over his own tongue for a brief touch, repeating the movement between kisses until Leto was meeting the touch, and pushing into the mage's mouth fervently in turn.

Leto's fingers traced down the grain of stubble ending in a smooth throat, dropping much lower to move over the dip of a pale hip he had glimpsed earlier before pressing up the mage's loose tunic, sliding his flattened palm up the lines of Anders' stomach and chest. Leto wanted very much to touch every inch of skin.

Anders jerked their mouths apart with a shuddering gasp, and Leto found his reactions intriguing; relishing in the sensitivity of his skin. Realizing just how much he wished to find every responsive area of the mage's body.

When he felt lips close over the edge of one of his ears with a warm hint of tongue, Leto was embarrassed to hear himself emit a low groan, unable to keep the noise from escaping his throat as his own skin shocked with a wave of goosebumps and a jolt of heat that crawled from his abdomen downward.

Anders pulled back, honey eyes lidded and searching Leto's face. His lips were swollen and pinked, cheeks flushed in patches with stray blonde hair falling loosely along his jaw and even a small bunch of strands over his long nose, looking disheveled and light-headed.

Leto moved his hand from the back of the mage's neck to catch the golden strands between his fingers and pull them back behind a round ear.

Anders smiled, eyes closing and leaning into the touch. “Should I take that as a yes?” He asked, voice rough and his accent somehow thicker.

Again, Leto ignored the question, watching the mage's face as he let the hand under his tunic explore further along Anders' body, tracing a path over his shoulders, down his back, and around to the other hip. A crease formed between dark golden brows, and the mage's body shivered with a groan.

“Maker, Leto – your _hands_. You have no bloody idea how good that feels...”

Leto felt himself smile, feeling ridiculous for being so pleased by these words as he leaned in to press another kiss to the mage's swollen lips.

Ruthless was on his feet with a resounding bark at the same moment the library door slammed open with a hurried swing that banged against the wall with a loud smack.

Leto yanked his hands from the mage's body, pulling their mouths apart at the same moment Isabela's voice raised above a few gasps and laughs,

“No, no _–_ don't _stop!_ We've only just arrived!”

Leto schooled his features to blankness, knowing that doing so did not negate the flush to his skin and lips or the disheveled state of his hair, but having no experience in such a situation to fall back on.

He watched silently as Anders' face passed between embarrassment and very slightly pleased.

Leto moved his gaze to the group that had interrupted them, finding himself wondering if they were all rather drunk. He did not register the words Hawke and Merrill were spewing forth; exclamations loud and drawn out, with Isabela whistling between laughs.

They grew far off and nearly silenced as the sound of Anders' subtle intake of breath became the only discernible noise.

Hawke had dropped a heavy weight onto the ornate carpet that covered the library's floor. It would seem near impossible, but there it was. The all too familiar, hefting shape of aged, dark wood and black hinges. Runes painting their way in an intricate pattern over its surface.

A third chest, sitting there like a promise.

Leto tensed as one of Anders' arms reached over him, and the comforting feel of soft fingers weaving through with his own stilled the trembling of his hand he had not notice had set in. 

\- - -

 


	15. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so incredibly long!! Thank you for reading!! :>
> 
> (Also, many of you lovely readers have commented on how hard Anders has fallen for Leto -- and you really are absolutely right. The poor sod.)

\- - -

With a firm swing, the door to the Amell estate library was finally closed.

And just for good measure, Anders twisted his fingers over the lock, satisfied to hear the slide and catch of metal that would ensure there were no more unwanted visitors for the night to ruin any more fantastic moments.

When he turned, Leto's name at the ready on his lips, he paused.

Leto was standing with his back to him, staring out into the darkened Hightown streets below from one of the estate's high-reaching windows that ran along the walls. To the right of where the elf stood, the newly acquired chest sat in the spot that Hawke had dropped it not long before, blending innocently enough with the other two of its matching kind, unaware of its own implications.

Anders found his mind mutinously cleared of anything clever to say – or even anything at all, but Leto surprised him by speaking first.

“It seems we are upon our last week here in Kirkwall.”

Anders blinked a few times before drawing his lips down into a slight frown. “Well, we can't know that for certain. Waiting for the seventh week to end before testing out the third chest is just a theory of Varric's. It might not even work – it didn't last time.”

Leto remained facing the window, but Anders could hear a humorless chuckle. Or perhaps it was just a sigh. Either way, it was much more than he would usually expect from the stoic warrior.

“Is that what you would want, Anders?”

Anders stared at the other man's back. Leto was asking questions – which he never did. Questions that even Anders himself would generally shy away from...

“I suppose it doesn't matter much what I want in this situation now, does it?” He answered after a moments thought. “Either way, we'll turn back. With or without the chest's help.”

When Leto did not respond, Anders took a few careful steps toward him, but he felt unsure.

What could he say?

He had no idea what was going through the elf's mind after what they had just learned, Leto having remained silent throughout the rowdy and mildly intoxicated tale that the others had told of the chest's acquisition. Anders never had any idea, though, did he? The very reason it was always so difficult to speak to this man.

Generally he would revert to meaningless humor. But after another long day in that clinic of his treating more patients than he could have imagined possible, and the newly found relic that threatened to turn his already unstable world up on its arse, as well as...

Anders licked the swollen surface of his chapped lips, and swallowed to chase away the dryness of his throat at the fresh memories taking hold. Of climbing his way over the very man he had been pining after for weeks and pressing their mouths together, their bodies...

“We should sleep,” Anders finally offered, his voice thick. “I've no doubt this upcoming week is going to be rather eventful for all of us.”

Leto nodded after a beat, and Anders yanked the hem of his threadbare tunic up and over his head without a thought, bunching it up and throwing it in a careful arc onto the pile that his robes and jacket made near the fire.

He slept in only his trousers every night. It was nothing new.

Yet when Leto turned around to regard him, his avid green eyes dropped down to the same chest and torso he had been running those calloused hands of his over not one hour before, and Anders suddenly felt newly exposed.

Leto had never really...looked before. Not like he was truly paying attention. Not like those eyes that were currently mapping a path over his skin, as if to commit every inch to memory.

Anders swallowed, feeling ridiculous when heat spread up his neck and his left hand wandered up to flatten over a particularly ugly scar that ran over his ribs. When Leto's eyes followed his hand, Anders dropped it quickly, regretting the inclination.

He was usually quite fond of showing off his body. Why did Leto's eyes make him feel so bloody self-conscious?

“I – that is...” Anders face burned. “Shall we lay down?”

Leto just stared, face impassive, and Anders' nerves prickled in the tips of his fingers. Perhaps that had come out...wrong.  
  
“Not - not lay down _together – “_

“If you would like,” Leto cut in, his tone giving no indication on how he felt about the words he spoke, “we can share a bed.”

_What?_

“Share a bed?” Anders very nearly squeaked. Andraste's tits – did he honestly just _squeak?_ He was not some inexperienced apprentice!

“If you would like,” Leto repeated with a simple tone in that rich voice of his that was so very far from any foolish squeaking. Maker take him, it was practically sinful. Utterly unfair.

And if Anders could only convince the elf to use it more often, he would willingly listen to it for _hours._

When Leto turned, moving to lower himself deliberately onto the makeshift bed that belonged to _Anders_ , he felt his heart pound harder with each subsequent beat.

After what must have been at least thirty seconds of drawn out silence, Anders found his movement, approaching the elf with a few careful steps, the heels of his feet seeming to drag over the plush carpet of the library floor in his hesitance.

Mirroring Leto, Anders lowered himself slowly onto the arrangement of mats and blankets an arms-length from the other man, watching his face closely for any hint as to what might be going through his thoughts.

When he could glean nothing, Anders spoke. “You keep saying 'If you would like,'” he said, keeping his voice deceptively steady by lowering it to a near whisper. He recalled Leto using those same words when they had kissed that night in his clinic. “What about you? What if I want to know what _you_ would like?”

“You always seem to," Leto said after a pause of consideration, and Anders thought he could detect humor. Or perhaps exasperation. "You always ask so many questions.”

Anders tilted his head, reaching behind him to pull his hair free of its tie as he asked a question that made him feel more anxious than it should. “You find me...rather annoying, don't you? My prolonged company must drive you mad.” His voice remained teasing, but he was distracting himself from Leto's reaction by carding his fingers through his hair, working the tangles.

“No, not annoying. Just...peculiar. I am unused to such interest – in my thoughts. And your company is not unwelcome.”

Anders tried to hide how pleased he was as he pushed his freed hair away from his eyes with his flattened palm and regarded the other man with a smile. “I suppose 'peculiar' is better than annoying.”

He could deal with being peculiar. But, despite Leto's words, Anders knew he was often a grate on the elf's nerves. And yet it would seem that the other man did not dislike his company, and that was a relief.

“I don't intend to stop asking after your thoughts, I'll have you know.”

Leto's attention seemed to be sharply fixated on the fingers Anders had tangled in his hair, keeping them trained there as he spoke, “Yet, you are concerned that I find you annoying.”

Anders dropped his hand, his hair falling loosely around his face.

“I just – ” Anders stopped short as he feigned a sudden interest in the woven pattern of the maroon blankets under his hands, tracing with his fingers for a moment before continuing.

“I just truly care...what you think of me.” 

He could practically feel Leto's eyes moving over him, prickling over the skin of his neck.

“...you worry about what I think of you?” Leto asked, and his tone seeming truly perplexed.  
  
Anders very nearly balked as his eyes snapped back up. “Well,  _yes!_ Of course I do! And it's not as though you make anything obvious, Ser Stoic-Mask of Broodiness.”

Leto shook his head, black bangs swaying over his forehead. “I had thought it was obvious. _Too_ obvious, in fact.” Anders could see color rising beneath the brown skin of his cheeks, verdant eyes sliding up under dark fringe to meet Anders' own for the barest of seconds, before shifting them to the side as he always seem to in conversation.

Maker, was this elf mad? Too obvious?  _Too. Obvious?_  

“No! No it's not bloody _obvious!”_ Anders couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up and out of his throat at the end of his exclamation. The open expression on Leto's face was truly one of confusion, and paired with that blush it was just too much. Too damn charming, and without even trying to be!

“Leto, I can honestly say – I have absolutely no idea what in Andraste's flaming knickers is going on behind those gorgeous green eyes of yours.”

To his delight, the color on Leto's cheeks darkened further, sliding said gorgeous green eyes down with his chin in embarrassment.

Anders had been firing compliments at the elf for weeks, and it was just _now_ that he was getting any sort of true reaction? Was it possible that the other man may have been under some foolish impression that his words were not completely and utterly genuine? That he had somehow only been _joking_ with the beautiful sod?

Anders intended to put any ridiculous doubts of that sort swiftly to rest indefinitely.

Not to mention being able to finally elicit a response was...encouraging.

He felt his confidence spike as he moved closer, shifting his body over the soft bedding and reaching his right hand out to rest on the smooth, cool leather of Leto's bent knee.

“D'you want to know what _I_ think of _you_?” Anders asked softly.

He watched Leto's throat work as the elf swallowed. “You...have an oddly high opinion of me.”

Anders gave a purposeful snort. “Leto – I am completely enamored by you.” He inched closer, but kept his hand gingerly placed on the other man's knee, catching his eye and making sure to hold it with a meaningful look before continuing. “My high opinion of you – which is in no way 'odd', mind you, seeing as I found you to be powerful, intelligent, and criminally attractive within less than an hour of knowing you, as would anyone,“ he felt Leto's body stiffen under his hand, “and yet it is still more than that.”

Leto's eyes were wide and his cheeks just as flushed, but his dark brows were twitching into an almost-scowl, and Anders pressed on before he could lose his own nerve or the other man could insist that he stop.

"It's – “ He paused, rubbing his left hand over the rough grain of his cheeks. “When you...when you smile, or you _laugh -_ I honestly can't remember how to speak properly,” his words remained blessedly steady, “and that really is quite a skill, Leto, I'll have you know. If only they had had you to implement on me back at the Tower – you may have just made a properly behaved apprentice out of me.”

“Your...ridiculous flattery aside, Anders – I do not think even your misguided infatuation with me could keep you truly silent for long,” Leto deflected, but his deep voice was not nearly as steady as Anders' own, and it made him grin to think his words had had such an obvious effect on the warrior.

“Yes, well, my endless wit is brilliant and all, but really - just what will it take to get you speaking in more than two or three sentences every few hours?”

Leto's body still felt stiff under his hand. “Is this...” he made a vague gesture between them, “part of your 'courting'?"

Anders smiled. "In a way.” He reached his left hand out carefully to the elf's face, watching as sharp eyes followed his movements unblinkingly. “Though really, Leto, I just want to know more about you..."

He curled the fingers of his left hand to his palm as he reached out to gently run his thumb over the smooth line of the other man's finely shaped jaw, admiring the handsome curves of his face, moving the touch from below the elf's ear down to his chin and back up. "Beyond that bloody mask you always wear."

Maker, but it was nice to finally be able to simply touch this man...

Leto blinked a few times in silence, apparently thinking over his words, and perhaps a bit distracted by his hand on his face. "I fear I may have to disappoint you, Anders." He offered finally in a simple tone. "There is not much more to me than this. I am a slave. That is...all...that I am."

Anders resisted the tightening of his fingers with the rush of anger that these words brought him. A familiar anger, one that was in no way directed at the man before him. He kept that anger in check with only the slightest press of his lips in a tight line.

He moved his thumb back down to Leto's chin and used the curled fingers of his fist to lift the other man's face back up. "Then tell me of being a slave. Tell me of your life..."

Leto's eyes snapped up to meet his, and Anders felt himself freeze, panicking for a breathless moment, worried he had somehow offended him.

_Too forward? Perhaps I shouldn't have touched him after all..._

But Leto did not pull away, and when he spoke, he did not sound angry. "I am a slave. My purpose...it is to serve my Master. That is all that I know..." There was a pause, and Anders waited for him to gather his thoughts, relieved he had not upset him.

"Or rather what I... _knew_." Leto's brow twitched and his eyes seemed to gloss with a clear conflict in his mind, but Anders could feel a swell in his chest at these words.

That Leto might just be questioning. That he might just be beginning to understand what it was to live a life of his _own_ , as he had been these past weeks here in Kirkwalll...

"Pleasing Master, it was my sole want and my only goal for each day of my life. Receiving praise for my actions, that was a rare and wonderful thing. I craved it...It was all that I had to live for."

Just as quickly, Anders felt the swelling in his chest deflate and tighten itself into something hard, and jagged: that same anger returning sharply to the surface.

"But I...I was given an opportunity." Leto's voice seem to take on a dazed quality as he said these words, and his eyes were now staring with a blankness beyond where Anders sat in front of him.

"An opportunity?" Anders prompted as tentatively as he could manage after the pause was too drawn out. He did not want to startle Leto, but he also did not want him to close himself off when this was far more than Anders had ever gotten from him in all the weeks they'd known each other. His thumb slid out over the elf's cheek in a small soothing circle.

He felt Leto's body relax slightly, and when he leaned into Anders' hand – even though it was the barest press of his weight – Anders felt lightened by the action. He repeated the stroking motion of his thumb, and Leto continued.

“Master offered a chance. A challenge. One that any slave or even free men and women could compete in for one incomparable prize. And...I had only one want, in my entire life, only one thing I had...ever...”

Anders felt his brows knit, but he did not dare interrupt with any foolish questions.

“A boon,” Leto paused and inhaled slowly, “anything within his power to grant, was to be bestowed upon the victor of this tournament. And I-...I won.”

“You won?”

“Yes.” Leto's voice was soft, and he did not sound in any way proud, but somewhere closer to relieved. “Yes, I won. I slaughtered many – those who sought the same as I: a gift from a member of the Magisterium itself...” Another pause. Memories making their way over that far off expression.

“I survived the trials, ones that tested and pushed my resolve. My will. My body.”

Anders resisted the slight tremor in his fingers.

“And the boon you were granted?” He asked with a surprising coherency. “What was it that made you...risk your life in such a way?”

“Freedom.”

Anders felt his brow pull tightly together, completely thrown.

“ _Freedom?_ But you – !"

“Not for me.” Leto interrupted firmly, and had Anders not been so entranced by the story, he would have smiled for the willful action. “My body is not my own. Not before, nor after the tournament. The freedom was for my mother, and for my sister – Varania.”

Anders flattened his hand on Leto's face and pulled himself closer, the length of their legs pressing tightly together.

“The only want you've ever had your entire life – was the freedom of _others?”_ his voice softened, _“_ of those you cared for most?”

Leto met his eyes, and the far off look was gone, answering him in an entirely honest voice, as if it were such a simple thing. “Yes.”

Anders kissed him then. Unable to stop himself. Wrapping his free arm around his shoulder and fit their lips together before pulling back just as quickly.

“Leto...” Anders moved his thumb over his cheek again. “You truly cannot see why I am so taken with you? After telling me _that?_ Risking your life to valiantly grant others their freedom and forsaking your own?”

Leto searched his face for a moment before a small smile pulled at his lips.

“Freedom is a valued concept to you.”

“Yes.” Anders confirmed instantly, without hesitation. “Yes, it is. We all deserve freedom, Leto. Even you.” _Maker, especially you..._

Leto regarded him in a way that reminded Anders of an adult placating a child. “I know you think that, Anders. But it is simply not my place in life.”

Anders dropped his hand and swore softly under his breath in Ander before snapping, “ _Honestly,_ Leto – why can't you just bloody well let yourself have this?! Your place is of your own choosing – you are a free man!”

Leto remained surprisingly calm at his outburst, and he seemed to ignore his words entirely, which just made him want to repeat himself in louder more effective detail.

Anders had not noticed Leto's attention shift, causing him to jump when he felt fingers drawing a line of sensation over his torso.

The scar on his ribs.

Anders tried to pull back, to cover the scar with his hand again, but Leto held him close with a surprising, powerful strength that upon reflection, wasn't actually surprising at all, and Anders felt himself relax into the warrior's hold.

He drew in a breath, telling himself it was rather a little late to feel so ridiculously self-conscious over the damage on his body.

Leto's calloused fingers traced over the gnarled flesh.

“You have given much for your freedom,” the elf finally offered.

Anders let out a slow breath. “Yes. Yes, I have...” Perhaps it was meant to be his turn. Leto had not out right asked, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that he was curious, that he wished to hear in return for what he himself had told.

“I would have given anything,” Anders started simply enough. “Being smacked around by those bastard Templars wasn't going to stop me. I escaped that blasted prison of a tower five times.” Anders barely noted that Leto's hands had begun moving over his skin again as he recalled his last day spent in Ferelden.

“In fact, my sixth escape would have been the very next day if I hadn't woken here in Kirkwall.” He felt his lips pull into a smirk. “There was to be a shipment of reagents sent out from the Tower, and I had a crate cleared to s-slip – “ Leto's fingers delving lower, sliding through the hair on his stomach. “in – inside of...”

The elf's eyes were on his body, but he smiled at his words. “I can...picture you doing such things. You are such an odd man.”

Anders ignored the heat on his cheeks and cleared his throat to still the shudder that nearly slipped out as his hands continued their exploration. “You know, I really would prefer _clever_ – resourceful, even.”

Leto chuckled, and Anders closed his eyes, enjoying the moment for their closeness, the feel of his hands, the warmth of his laughter...

“You escaped five times, but you were recaptured. And they...these Southern Templars...they punished you?” Leto's words were paired with careful fingers trailing up to his back, over one of the lines a lash had etched permanently into his skin.

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” Anders countered easily. “And they really haven't much else to do with me than make me Tranquil at this point. Though – I suppose my sixth escape had me become a Grey Warden...” Still such a strange concept, but becoming more familiar with each time the thought crossed his mind.

“Tranquil.” Leto's hands slid back to the front of him as the warrior shifted his body closer. Hands coming to rest opposite each other to grip the curved bones of Anders' hips.

Anders felt a shiver make its way up his spine, a familiar heat in his abdomen that stretched down at the intimate touch.

“I do not like to think of such a thing...happening to you, Anders.”

Anders' heart sped, and a different type of heat spread in his chest at the elf's words. “Nor do I!” He said with a breathless laugh. “Really, I would rather die than be made Tranquil.” Anders was content to concentrate on the man before him, rather than the sharp memory of two boys whispering desperately of a dark pact; a promise to free the other if such a thing were to befall them.

Anders was free, now, though. And Karl had passed his Harrowing long ago. They were safe...

Leto frowned, but did not question him further of such things.

Anders had more questions of his own at the ready in his mind, but when fingers traced down the line of his hips and over the laces of his breeches, his words were swallowed in a surprised grunt as his thoughts lost coherent meaning.

“L-Leto –  “

“You desire me sexually."

Anders' brain finally caught up with him enough to process the words the moment he felt Leto's fingers pulling at his laces.

“What?! Y-you can't just...Leto – _wait!”_ He clamped his hands over the elf's efficient fingers to still their movements.

Leto glanced back up to his face, his own expression maddeningly blank. “Is this not...what I am meant to do next? In this courtship?”

Anders fingers fidgeted, and he pulled the other man's hands from the waist line of his breeches immediately, his chest tight and his skin flushed.

“What you are _meant_ to do?'” Anders asked incredulously. “Leto – that is not...how this works.”

The elf frowned, dark brows drawing together, and Anders could see that he was frustrated. “I do not know...the proper customs.”

Anders leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to the elf's forehead, black hair tickling at his nose as he drew back to regard him.

He idly wondered how often he could steal these quick kisses without causing irritation before he continued.

“There aren't any...'customs'...” Anders said slowly, trying to find the words to explain. He did not know of Leto's sexual experience. It seemed likely that he had never had much a relationship, and the straight-forward way he had said, 'You desire me sexually.' grated on Anders' nerves and turned his stomach; leaving him with questions that he had no idea how to even begin addressing.

Slavery in the Tevinter Imperium was not without its vile reputation.

Instead he swallowed, and collected his thoughts. “I am. _..attracted_ to you _.” Maker, was that an understatement._

He tried desperately not to let his thoughts linger on how often he had taken himself in hand while he was in the privacy of the Amell estate's wash room over the past weeks – Leto's name a constant whispered moan on his lips as he imaged himself pinned against a wall, that sinful growl in his ear, calloused fingers working over his cock –

Anders blinked, his skin burning as his pulse heated beneath it, suddenly feeling far too hot, and he cleared his throat with an unnecessary volume.

“But – “ He managed to choke out, clearing his head of his perverse fantasies.

“I also _care_ for you. And I would rather be completely certain that doing anything sexual with you is truly consensual.”

Leto blinked. “Consensual...” The elf shifted where he sat. “You think that I do not...want to please you?” He seemed confused, gesturing between them, and Anders could see he was frustrated. “I had thought...Have I not made my intentions clear tonight?”

“Maker, Leto, that's not what I...”

Leto made surprisingly quick work of undoing the clasps of the sleeveless tunic he wore, and slid it ardently from his body.

Anders felt any more words die on his lips as his eyes took in the sight of the other man's upper body bare before him.

Firm fingers gripped his left wrist, and Anders' hand was raised to press against the smooth surface of the warrior's chest, green eyes meeting his and holding him motionlessly there with his gaze.

“You can touch me, Anders.”

“I...” Anders hesitated, but then his fingers moved very slowly over the taut skin, running down over the lines of muscle from his chest to abdomen, entranced by the sensation and the lovely contrast of their skin...

When he felt the growing heat in his abdomen stir down to his already unlaced trousers, he swiftly pulled his hand away, and was met with a frustrated growl.

“ _Anders.”_

The Golden City itself couldn't hold such a temptation as that voice or the man to whom it belonged, but Anders somehow found it in himself to shake his head.  
  
“No. I – I have to be certain this is something you want for yourself. This is not about pleasing _me,”_ he insisted, using Leto's own words, ones that had caused him such pause. Anders did not want to delve too deeply into the implications of those words just yet. Not right this second. But he would not allow them to continue if Leto saw this as some sort of...

_Service._

Anders stomach gave a sickening twist at the very thought as he fought passed a grimace. He shook his head, bringing his concentration back to the elf's usually indistinguishable face, which was currently working in a clearly frustrated scowl.

“This isn't about pleasing me, alright?” Anders repeated firmly. “It has to about _mutual_ pleasure,” he reached a hand up to slide through his his hair, pulling at the strands that had fallen from behind his ears, “I need you to tell me...that you want this for _yourself._ Not for me.”

Leto frowned, his scowl loosening into a thoughtful expression. “I – enjoy touching you, Anders. I do not know what you want me to say...” he murmured slowly, and shook his head, swearing softly in Tevene.

Anders slid his fingers tentatively over Leto's hand.

“Leto, do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Anders tried to ignore his own pleasure at the immediacy of the other man's answer, but couldn't fight passed his smile. They had not touched much on the subject of magic, but Anders was well aware of the other man's aversion.

Yet Leto would readily declare his trust in him: a _mage._

“And are you attracted to me – sexually?”

Leto looked up, his face showing an openness that Anders wanted so much to somehow keep there permanently.

“ _Yes._ ”

Anders swallowed, his own gaze wavering under the intensity of the that 'yes' for a moment, before he moved himself forward, hands settling lightly on Leto's shoulders.

“Then, can you lay back on the bed?” He allowed himself a slightly cheeky smile. “'If you would like', that is.”

Leto snorted, and moved to do as he asked, but Anders caught a fleeting flash of uncertainty as the elf settled in on his back, propping his upper body up by his elbows to regard him with that mask firmly in place.

Anders wondered briefly if it were a simple defense mechanism that the other man fell back onto. He had seen as much before in the Circle. His own was less effective, it would seem. Sarcasm and cheek were generally not very well received by Templars in his experience.

Anders pushed these thoughts away as he pulled his legs from under him and moved himself carefully over Leto's body, his knees coming rest on either side of the warrior's leather clad thighs.

Bracing his weight on one arm, he leaned in to kiss Leto, pausing to meet green eyes before brushing their lips together, soft and chaste.

“I'm going to touch you, if that's alright?” Anders murmured, pleased when Leto nodded. “If I...make you uncomfortable – tell me to stop. _Promise_ me that?”

Leto hesitated for a beat, and Anders could see a conflict in his eyes. He wanted to understand...but at the same moment, he did not want to force him to discuss these things. Not now...

Yet he could not keep himself from thinking of it. Of how this man he had grown to care for so deeply hesitated to promise that he would speak up if he experienced discomfort, if he wanted Anders to stop.

Anders waited. He would not touch him until he was certain. He watched patiently as Leto moved his gaze up to make proper eye contact, and the elf nodded once, a quick jerk to his head.

“I promise.”

\- - -


	16. Clarity

\- - -

Anders was waiting for him to answer, and for a startling moment, Leto found himself unable to respond.

He was not nervous because he thought that Anders would hurt him. He knew that this mage would not do anything to harm him.

Leto trusted him. Trusted him with a certainty that nearly frightened him – that _should_ frighten him.

He was not...

When Anders leaned closer, Leto's heart seemed to physically jump in his chest. His pulse set to hammering at a near painful speed against his ribs and up into his throat. He swallowed around that feeling, pushing it down.

He could do this for Anders. He _wanted_ to do this for him.

Leto met the other man's eyes – those soft honey eyes – and he managed a quick nod.

_He trusted Anders._

“I promise.”

His words were met with a long, searching look; but Anders seemed to somehow find something in his closed expression that satisfied him, because he returned the nod with one of his own and moved his body forward.

Leto held himself still, and he tried not to think of how his body was reacting out of habit – waiting for instruction, waiting for...

_No, you are in Kirkwall. This is not Minrathous. This is Anders. He is not punishing you, you have done nothing wrong._

Leto hadn't had such thoughts in so long, and he had to drive down the shot of panic that surged up his spine and danced over his nerves, buzzing in time with his thudding heart.

Yes, he wanted to please him. More so than he had ever wanted to please any other, even Master.

But it was...more than that. It was somehow different.

Anders did not look at him as a means to an end. When he looked at him, as he was now – he saw _Leto_. Not a slave or an object; but a man who he foolishly viewed as his equal. And Leto did not know how to approach this courtship, not just for the differences in customs in the North and the South, but also as something other than a tool to be used or honed.

The mage stopped short _again_ , and despite his slight panic; Leto wanted to growl with frustration and yank the other man to him. He wanted to press their bodies together, to pull more of those rousing sounds past Anders' soft mouth.

It may not be his right as a slave, but damn him, he _wanted_. He wanted Anders, and the carefulness with which the other man was approaching him was driving him to madness. He felt both anxious and impatient with it. Torn between too many things at once.

Anders' expression had shifted. His eyes had dropped to Leto's body, and he felt heat rising to his face as the mage unashamedly studied his exposed form. Leto was not unaccustomed to bearing his skin. In the scorching climate of Minrathous, his morning routine consisted of training exercises that kept his skills and muscles sufficiently sharp and disciplined for his purpose as one of his Master's guards, and he often wore very little.

Yet there was a hunger to the man's golden eyes, and an admiring quality that Leto was both straining not to look purposefully away from and desperate to capture in his mind for later reflection. Anders was regarding him as if he were something – _someone_ – worthy of looking at.

Someone of _worth._

When the mage's gaze was finally – _finally –_ matched with a ghosting of warm fingertips, sliding over the line and dip of Leto's collarbone down the center of his chest, Leto fought to keep from shivering in response as his skin reacted to the touch after such drawn out anticipation.

"Maker, do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?"

Something thrilled in Leto's stomach, but he scowled passed the feeling. Before he could open his mouth to request that the mage cease his needless flattery and get on with it, Anders was closing in again. Leto angled his face up, expecting him to fit their lips together, but found his mouth bypassed and a draw of warm breath over his throat.

Leto's elbows dug into the blankets and he fought to keep from squirming when Anders' lips pressed to his neck, moving soft, slow kisses that made his brow twitch and furrow. When Anders' tongue slid out to brush over his pulse, Leto bit back a responding sound that threatened to slip from his mouth.

Anders' arms settled around his back, his palms and fingers tugging him closer, and Leto could not hold back the strangled gasp that was pulled from him when the faint brushes of lips and tongue became a sharp suck of skin between teeth.

It became difficult to hold himself steady as the Anders moved his mouth over his neck, his shoulder, down his chest; alternated between soft nips and licks and those stinging bites that shot heat through him, making his breath hitch and catching his lower lip between his teeth.

Leto's hand jerked up and tangled in the thick blonde hair at the back of the mage's head, unsure of whether he wanted to pull the man away to gain some composure or hold him there and beg for more.

Anders pulled back anyway, the gold of his eyes a thin line around wide blown pupils, which moved quickly over Leto's face in concern. “Should I stop?”

Leto wove the fingers in the mage's hair into a fist, pulling his face down in answer to press their lips together, sliding his tongue passed Anders' gasp, wasting no time with soft, teasing touches; kissing him with all the built up fervor to show just how much he wanted this. Leto sat up without thought, forgetting Anders' request for him to lay down at the start of this, his arms going around the mage's waist to drive him down as he rolled his hips up to grind their bodies together.

Anders broke the contact of their mouths when their hips connected to yelp, feeling the other man's hardness against his own, Leto was pleased through the haze of his arousal to know that Anders was just as worked up as he was. His skin under Leto's fingers seemed to tremble.

He brushed a slow kiss to Anders' slightly parted mouth, earning a soft, humming whine and Leto had to fight back a smile.

“I do not want you to stop,” he managed to answer against the mage's lips, angling his face up to press their foreheads together. His voice grated on his own ears, low and rough.

Anders' answering laugh was shaky, rumbling over his chest and against his mouth as their breath mixed together. “You do make a rather convincing argument,” he murmured wryly, his voice warm.

When Anders reached his hands behind him and pulled at his wrists, Leto released him immediately.

Leto sat frozen with his arms at his side, worrying for a fleeting moment if he had gone too far. Anders had asked him to lay down, and he had...

But the mage was still smiling, looking somewhere between mischievous and shy as he moved to settle himself between Leto's thighs, his fingers pausing on the laces of the leather leggings he wore.

Leto swallowed, staring at him. He was not angry. Of course he wasn't. Leto had done nothing wrong, and even if he had, Anders would not punish him for it.

 _You are thinking too much. This is_ Anders.

Leto steadied his breathing as he distracted himself with the blonde hair falling over Anders' face, which his fingers twitched to smooth back. To wind themselves in again.

“Would it be alright if I took these off?” Anders asked, drawing Leto's attention back to his face, the mage's pale cheeks flushed as pink as his lips.

Leto pulled a breath in through his nose, and nodded with a jerk of his head.

Yet Anders stayed with his hands paused, still searching Leto's face as though he doubted him, and Leto very nearly ripped the fabric from his own body with his impatience.

“Venhedis, Anders – _yes._ Take them off! _”_ He growled, his arousal getting the better of him. But Leto remembered himself, and his face prickled as cold dread flushed over his skin at his commanding tone.

Anders' golden eyes blinked in surprise, and Leto felt a sudden drop in his stomach as a familiar rise of fear spiked through him.

“I didn't – “ He began, ready to apologize for his tone, for speaking out of place; but found himself cut off when Anders responded with a loud, delighted laugh.

"Leto, that voice of yours is doing all sorts of things to me.” He murmured with a pleased smirk, long fingers pulling at loosening black laces.

Leto felt the panic calm itself, moving his hips up as Anders pulled the leather leggings down, his fingers trailing warmth over the length of his legs as he slid them off. Leto shivered, watching the other man resume the study of his form with the newly exposed skin. He followed his gaze down to where his cock rested against his thigh, half-hard and straining.

Anders' eyes seem to darken with his cheeks, and Leto balled his hands into the maroon blankets beneath him to keep from reaching out and touching him. He wanted desperately for Anders to finish undressing as well, to see him entirely bare, to touch every part of him.

Leto suppressed the impatient noise that threatened to slide passed his lips.

Anders' lidded eyes lifted to Leto's face, and he thought he could see the other man nearly panting. “Leto, can I –?”

“ _Yes,”_ Leto ground out through a partially clenched jaw, keeping his voice steady. “Yes, Anders. Yes. You can do whatever you want, just – ” He winced as his tone threatened to become demanding once again, lowering his voice to mutter something unsavory in Tevene.

Anders palms came to rest lightly on his thighs, and he found the warm weight both calming and charging, those splayed fingers nearly touching his cock.

“I just want to be certain you want this as well,” Anders insisted gently, but a crooked smile was pulling at his lips, “Though I've never had any objections in my...abilities.”

Leto's frowned, but Anders gave him no time to offer any questions as to what he alluded to. His eyes widened as the other man deftly wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, and he shuddered, bracing his weight on his arms, trembling against the want to buck his hips up into his hand.

Blonde hair tickled his hips as the other man lowered his head, golden eyes lifting to meet his as Anders pressed his lips to the side of his length. Leto's mouth fell slack, his eyebrows drawing together.

“A-Anders, what are you...” He trailed off, his cock pulsing and throbbing under the impossibly soft pressure of the mage's lips. “You don't have to – _ahh_ – “ His words dissolved into an incoherent exclamation as Anders slid his tongue out, veering it along the underside of his shaft, which twitched beneath pale fingers as a bead of precum leaked down from the slit, Anders moving to catch it in his mouth with his tongue and lips, moaning at the contact; and Leto shuddered at the sight, the sound.

It was the most arousing thing he had ever seen, and watching Anders was almost more gratifying than the feeling of his laving tongue, hot and fluid over his swollen length.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it certainly hadn't been this. Never in his life had he felt anything so pleasurable, and he trembled with the strain of biting back his moans. With Master it had always been about serving him, about obeying and enduring and although he could barely compare the two, a small part of him had been expecting the same from Anders. He had been prepared to make this sacrifice for him.

No, he had not been expecting this.

The familir tightness in his chest seemed to swell, and he didn't stop himself from reaching out, from stroking his fingers over Anders' hair. He had not noticed his fingers were quivering until he let his hand drop back down to the blankets.

Anders was watching him, his eyes fixed up to Leto's face as he licked up to the tip of his cock, pulling him between his lips and sucking the head, flattening his tongue over the slit to gather any remaining fluid.

Leto bit harder into his lower lip, teeth holding back any resulting sounds as Anders sucked him deeper into his slick mouth, sliding up and back down his cock, fisting the ring of his fingers up to meet his mouth. His tongue running along the curves, and the soft heat of his mouth thrummed when the man moaned around him.

When Leto saw Anders reach his free arm down to grind his palm against the bulge in his trousers, he dragged the blunt edges of his nails over the silken fabric under him, imaging the weight of Anders in his hands.

Anders' eyes never left his face as he pulled his own cock free and began gliding pale fingers over himself in time with the up and down motion of his mouth. Anders forced a shattering moan from his occupied lips, his fingers glistening over his length as he moved them faster, squeezing and twisting his fist.

“ _Anders._..” Leto breathed out through a strangled groan, his voice breathless and quivering. At the sight of the mage pleasuring himself, with brows furrowed and mouth stretched around the swell of his cock, Leto felt his hips begin snapping up into the other man's reddened lips, and he was swallowed down with each motion until Anders held him steady, taking a breath through his nose and hollowing his cheeks, sliding him fully into his throat in one swift motion.

Leto cried out as the build of pressure overwhelmed him completely, unsure of the language he spoke as the words forced themselves past his lips. The back of his head hitting the blankets was the first indication that he had fallen away, arching up as every nerve in his body felt lit with warm, sparking fire.

When his vision cleared of the haze, he found Anders over him, soothing fingers carding through his hair. His body sheened with sweat, cooling with the rushing blood in his veins as he came down from the orgasm, his pulse a loud throbbing in his neck, his fingers, and at the tips of his ears.

Anders leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, which was parted with a steady panting.

“Was...Was that okay?” Anders asked, his cheeks still patched with red, his hair a mess of flyaway golden strands around his face. His tone sounded mostly joking – clearly that had been more than simply 'okay' – but there was an underlying nervousness that Leto could not begin to fathom.

How could he possibly think that Leto had not enjoyed that?

Had _Anders_ truly enjoyed it? Didn't he want more? Had he even...?

Pulling in a sharp breath, Leto slid his tongue over his drying lips before nodding. “ _Yes,_ ” He swallowed, his voice was rasping. "Yes, it was. More than okay..." 

Anders' smiled, and Leto barely had a chance to catch the corners of his honey eyes creasing before the mage was sliding his arms around him and pressing their bodies tightly together; tickling and scratching the skin of Leto's neck with stubble as the he settled them together on the bed.

“I'm – glad.” Anders breathed almost shyly against his neck, his nose resting below his ear. “You have no idea how long I've been wanting to...” He trailed off with a small sigh, his lips pressing to the space where Leto's neck met his shoulder.

“I'm glad.” He repeated, voice sleepy, and Leto believed him.

He sounded happy. That same weightless tone he recognized from that night in his clinic when he had asked to kiss him.

Leto felt what he imagined was a mirror of that same happiness in his own chest, finding a lazy strength in his arms to match the mage's movements, holding them against one another as sleep pulled at him, unbidden. Pulling him away from thoughts of a future they did not – _could not_ – have together.

Fractured images of a life in Kirkwall together, with Anders, were the last that his mind registered as the Fade swallowed them, warping them into dreams as blissfully unreal as his reality.

\- - -

Anders awoke from his deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of far off voices. The words being spoken pulling at his mind with syllables and sounds that just barely escaped coherency, muffled by walls and distance. It was an irritating sensation. Nagging at his thoughts with the broken words he could nearly discern the meaning of.

As he came closer to consciousness, he found he could recognize the speakers.

Varric. And...Isabela?

Curious, but still waking, Anders reached up rub at his eyes, but found his hand interrupted on its way to his face by...

Anders eyes slid open, ignoring the sharp bite of the too bright lights that shone through he high reaching windows, and blinking past the blurry edges of his vision until he could focus on the man he lay entangled with. A wonderfully solid weight against his body.

_Leto._

A tight feeling of comfort – of _happiness_ – seemed to grip itself in his chest, twisting at his heart almost painfully. It was a wonderful sensation. Anders sleepily mumbled something that sounded a bit like, “Mmnff...” leaning in to nuzzle his face against black hair and brown skin, inhaling slowly.

When he was able to make out one clear word in the conversation, his brow twitched.

_Danarius._

Anders' eyes snapped back open and he lifted his head a fraction, his pulse having jumped with a surprising amount of tension at the sound of that name, and he felt suddenly wide awake.

Danarius? What were they talking about Danarius for? Were they talking about Leto? About Fenris?

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Staying exactly where he was, with his body so warmly tucked against the warrior's, their arms and legs and bodies fitting together...

The voices seemed to decrease in volume, as if mocking his strained attempts to hear more.

Anders let out a long sigh through his nose that sounded more like a groan, and moved to sit up.

Though before he began any sort of extraction from the bed, Anders turned to press a quick kiss to the elf's relaxed brow. The smell of his skin against his nose brought his lips back down for a second kiss to his forehead, and a third to his pliant lips, slightly parted in sleep. Anders pulled their legs apart carefully, moving to cover Leto more securely with the silky woven blanket.

He watched the elf's peaceful face out of the corner of his eye as laced his trousers, moving as quietly as he could manage to leave him undisturbed. He padded barefoot to the fireplace to retrieve the off color tunic he wore under his robes. While pulling it on, his eyes went back to the sleeping man in his bed, smiling faintly at the memory of swearing to purchase a new tunic as soon as he had the funds, but spending his coin on his clinic and Leto instead.

“I'll be right back, love,” Anders whispered, leaning down to smooth his fingers over Leto's dark hair before turning to step carefully out into the main hall of the estate.

Sure enough, Isabela stood lounging with her arms crossed insouciantly, her weight rested on her hips against the desk that housed the Hawke family's documents, most of which had been cleared out by the very dwarf that currently stood before it, still more documents in his hands.

Both rogues had glanced up at his appearance, and both rogues had also subsequently stopped speaking. At least, stop speaking about whatever it was that had them at the Amell estate so early in the morning with a Tevinter Magister's name on their lips.

“Well aren't you just the picture of morning sunshine," Varric quipped, tucking one of the pages into his open shirt.

“Lookit' his hair, all mussed up,” Isabela purred suggestively, elbow poking out to knock against Varric's shoulder. “You two finish what you started last night, sweet thing?”

Anders ignored her question, but returned their smiles. “What're you two doing here so early?”

“Just delivering some letters,” Varric answered smoothly.

Anders raised his brows. “And how would you come to have letters from Danarius?”

Varric's smile faltered for a moment, but was back just as quickly. Isabela made a face. “Oh, bugger. The cheeky brat was eavesdropping.”

Anders breathed a small laugh. “Not on purpose,” he countered, but was met with a doubtful look from the pirate. “Though I'd love to know more about it, if you'd be so inclined?”

“Not happening, Blondie. Try your charming smile out on someone else.”

Anders refused to pout, so he scowled instead. “C'mon, then. Danarius isn't anywhere near Kirkwall, is he? That's the sort of thing that you don't keep from us, you know. Remember what happened at Fenris' mansion?”

He didn't miss the quick glance passed between pirate and dwarf.

Varric let out a long breath, settling the documents down in a neat pile. “Alright, Blondie. But this stays between us, alright? I need to know that you won't go telling Broody all about it the moment he starts on with the puppy eyes.”

Anders blinked. Leto wouldn't want to know anyway, but all the same...If it were a matter of Leto's safety...

“Okay, deal.” Anders offered easily enough, hoping the rogues couldn't detect any notes of dishonesty in his face, showing that charming smile Varric had the gall to doubt, and settling himself against the wall to listen.

“So, about Danarius?” He prompted when they remained silent.

Varric side-eyed him for a moment, but turned back to the documents and began scribbling a message efficiently down before saying, “no, he's no where in Kirkwall,” the quill paused mid-sentance for a beat, but then renewed its course. “...yet.”

“Yet?” That jump to Anders' heart was back to full speed.

“We don't know when he'll show up,” Isabela offered after a moment. “Might not ever.” She shrugged one of her shoulders. “He's been sending slavers and mercenaries after Fen for years now, but he's never come himself. Even to claim that mansion in Hightown.”

Anders glanced between them. “Wait, so that Tevinter mage? She was...after Fenris?”

“Yes,” Varric answered as he wrote. “And up until now, Danarius coming to Kirkwall would have been fine, Broody's been waiting for him in that mansion for as long as we've known him. He and Hawke could have finally killed the son of bitch and everything would work itself out, but – “

“But now, with Leto as he is...” Isabela fixed him with a look. “Anders, you have to keep an eye out for him, alright? He doesn't realize what's out there. And he can't know, not until we've sorted you lot out back to your proper selves.”

A surge of protectiveness rolled over him. “I – yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, for telling me this...” If Danarius was after Leto, nothing was going to keep Anders from stopping that happening. _Nothing._

Perhaps his vehemence should have frightened him, but he was calm with it. It simply was fact, now. An easy thing to accept.

The thought of Danarius having mercenaries or slavers putting Leto in chains and dragging him back to Tevinter as a slave made it that much easier to accept.

Anders would sooner die than let that happen.

“That's all you get to know, Blondie. No more questions,” Varric said, his voice remaining as genial as ever. “It's enough to keep your curiosity at bay, and to keep you two safe a little longer...Though if we're lucky – Andraste's great flaming ass, we better be – Leto will be Fenris again before anything new comes up with our dear Magister.”

“I swear – if that sick bastard really does ever show himself here in Kirkwall, I will gladly see him dead by my own hand.”

Isabela whistled, reaching a hand out to slap him on the shoulder. “Listen to you!”

Varric stilled the scratching of his stylized quill once again, and looked up from the parchment to fix Anders with a sardonic smile. “Blondie. As dashing as you sound, you do realize that you two might not even remember any of this soon?" Anders shifted where he stood, glancing away at the dwarf's words. "Granted, I don't understand magic too well myself, but...I _do_ know that you could be back to hating each other at literally any second.”

Anders frowned.

“Yes, I really wouldn't recommend putting your heart out there only to have someone forget you exist.” Isabela remarked dryly, sounding amused rather than dejected. “It's really not as thrilling and potentially romantic as some writers make it out to be.” She reached out to nudge Varric with her elbow guard again, the dwarf answering with a shrug and a chuckle.

Anders thought of the glances he'd seen her sneak at Hawke when she thought no one was watching, her omnipresent humor slipping to reveal far off looks that Anders was always so surprised to witness. For all her talk, the pirate was clearly quite fond of the Ferelden apostate.

Despite himself, these thoughts and doubts found Anders offering more than he had planned.

"I've been writing myself letters."

Isabela and Varric traded looks of amusement that neither bothered to conceal.

"You've been writing letters...to _yourself_ , Blondie? Andraste's round ass, of course you have." The dwarf was shaking his head, but still smiling. "Even I couldn't make this shit up."

Anders chuffed, leaning back against the wall. "Yes. To my...older self. The Warden. Or whatever we're calling him." He was surprised at how normal that almost sounded to him, and how odd it was that something so strange could be considered normal. The two rogues were no doubt just as numbed to the complete nonsensical qualities of his situation as he was, their jokes aside.

"I've written about everything that's happened. In case I forget..." He toyed with his sleeve again, refusing to admit he might just be fidgeting.

_Forget?_

How could he possibly forget these past weeks in Kirkwall? Forget his time with Leto?

Feeling the rogues' sharp eyes on him, waiting, he cleared his throat and continued. "About Leto. You see, I just thought that – _maybe_...I might read them after and..."

"You're hoping your letters can cool things between him and Fenris?" Isabela asked, tawny eyes shifting to Varric again, a smirk forming over her lips and catching the gold of her piercing in the low light of the still waking estate.

"Well...yes," he muttered, pulled between embarrassment and optimism. "I know this situation isn't going to last. It can't, not with the new find, not with this...time limit." He shook his head. "But...I won't just let myself forget how I felt. How I feel."

“How you feel?” Isabela teased, and Anders couldn't muster a proper scowl in response.

He knew he was smiling now, grinning even, and he honestly didn't care.

“ _Yes,_ how I feel,” he repeated flippantly, “I love him. And I will not let my sodding older self forget it.”

Isabela's eyes widened, her lips parting slightly in surprise before twisting back into that bemused smirk. “Oh, how young you truly are, Sweetness.” She shot Varric an exasperated look, her brows raised. “Are you hearing this? Not even been two months, and Sparklefingers fancies himself in _love_. With _Broody._ ”

“Hey, now Rivaini,” Varric waved his hand over the parchment he had renewed with the scratching of a quill moments before. “Don't knock it. Just think – the ever passionate, renegade apostate falls hopelessly in love with the emotionally stunted, runaway slave? This isn't too bad!”

Anders rolled his eyes, but was unable to quell his grin. Maybe he didn't really want to. Best to enjoy this moment; this feeling of being able to declare how he felt to people that he had grown to trust. These were not people that would use his feelings against him.

They would not tell him he – a mage – had no Maker given right to feel at all.

_Fancy myself in love, indeed. And I will not bloody well let my age or his change that._

\- - -

Leto yanked back from the library door as if the handle had suddenly lit on fire and seared his flesh.

The tips of his fingers stung as though prickled with dozens of sharp needles, and his mind felt thick, far too thick for coherent thought.

Master.

Master was looking for him, had been for _years?_

What possible value could an elven slave have that a Magister would send after him with such ruthless persistence after years of escaping the Imperium?

He had thought that...He had felt...not _safe –_ but disconnected from it all. Fenris' abandoned mansion had led him to believe that Master no longer had business in Kirkwall.

That Fenris himself was the cause of Master's very presence here in the first place? To hunt him? _Why?_

That Fenris thought himself capable of fighting Master? That he would _lure_ him here for that purpose?

“ _I swear – if that sick bastard really does ever show himself here in Kirkwall, I will gladly see him dead by my own hand.”_

Adrenaline and panic coursed through him as the image was burned into his brain – of Anders standing before Master, the blonde mage's staff raised in attack –

The edges of his vision closed in with spots of black.

“No.”

Images of torture, of the very carpet under his feet heavy and thick with spilled blood. Of demons ripping the very air to tear their way from the Fade to destroy this estate, to destroy Kirkwall and everyone in it. Of the twisting forms of abominations splitting the flesh of former persons, their voices a horrific parody of the bodies they now used for their own sadistic pleasures.

Of Hawke. Carver, Isabela, Sebastian, Merrill, Varric, Aveline and Donnic.

They would fight for him. Against his Master. Fight the owner of a _slave,_ who would be worthless to stop it. Worthless to protect them.

They would lose. Master was unstoppable, he was powerful...

He was protected.

Leto staggered, the plush carpet under his knees and fists dry of the blood he saw in his mind's eye, the blood he himself would spill at his Master's command.

And Anders...

_No..._

Anders, a collar around his throat, Master intent on breaking him.

Anders, pushing, and pushing, and _pushing_ until he finally went too far. He would never yield, he would die first – and Master would have Leto watch, perhaps even have _him_ be the one to end Anders' life –

“ _No!”_ Nausea ripped at his stomach and the burn of bile rose in his throat and cold sweat pooled at his brow.

Leto could not let that happen. _He. Would. Not._

Bracing himself on his knees, he pulled in long, steadying breaths.

And what of the fugitive, Fenris? Who had clearly been willing to bring Master's wrath upon these people – people that _cared for the ungrateful, arrogant fool!_

 _Fenris_ clearly did not care who he put in danger. Freedom was obviously his sole concern.

Blinking past the panic, he felt his vision clear with sudden clarity. No, he would not allow this to continue. Not when he had the ability to stop it. To put a stop to all of this – for this was not some _dream_ free of consequence.

Leto knew his place, had known it all along. His place was not here, in Kirkwall, with Hawke and his companions. It was not one of freedom, one of human mages treating him as if it were.

His place was not with Anders.

Leto would return to Tevinter.

He would go back to Minrathous as he was, and bring with him the fugitive that his Master sought because _that_ was his place.

Fenris would not endanger the people Leto had come to care for any longer with his selfish play at freedom.

Master would have them him back, and Kirkwall – _Anders_ – would be safe from them both.

 


	17. The Third Artifact

As Anders prepared to slip away from his conversation with the two rogues, his attention was caught by the sight of a slightly bedraggled Hawke descending the stairs at an uneven pace. He appeared to be pulling on bits of his too-loose armor as he walked.

“You're up early,” Anders observed, moving to meet him at the stone steps, mildly concerned that the other mage might fall and leave him with a morning spent tending a twisted ankle or a broken arm, rather than curled up with a certain gorgeous elf.

Hawke was, in Anders' experience in sharing a home with the youth, generally a rather genial morning person; leading him to believe that perhaps his fellow apostate was nursing a bit of a hangover.

“I have _'business'_ to attend to, apparently,” Hawke informed Anders around a wide yawn while he continued to tighten the straps of his gauntlet, thankfully reaching the bottom of the staircase with no misfortune. “Not that I ever have any idea what's going on anyway.”

Anders let out a small laugh. “The theme of our lives over the past weeks, it would seem. Can't say it's been boring though, can you?”

Hawke shook his head with a sleepily bemused expression before looking up from his armor. “Did you wanna come with?” He asked as he moved to adjust his massive shoulder guard. “Carver and I are headed to the Chantry to – “

Anders held up a hand at the word 'Chantry'. “I uh, think I'll pass, Hawke. You might be mad enough to traipse your magical self around that place, but I prefer to keep my own magical arse as far as physically possible,” he offered the other mage a crooked smile. “I'm just saying."

“Right, of course,” Hawke said with a blithe wave of his gauntlet, “It's still strange being both nobility _and_ an apostate. Not sure how I managed that.”

Anders was inclined to agree with him on that one. He glanced up as Isabela and Varric approached, their heads bent together in conversation. “Well, you _are_ rather charming.”

Hawke's gaze moved passed Anders to the two rogues as well, and Anders didn't miss the shift in his expression when his amber eyes paused on the pirate. “So I've heard.”

On a different morning, Anders might have spared a moment to question and tease his friend for his confused infatuation, but he was eager to get back to the library, to Leto...

Anders felt a rush at the thought of the warrior, and smiled at the memory of waking in the circle of his arms; sleeping with Leto throughout the night with the shared warmth of their bodies, something he had so rarely been able to do with Karl.

He couldn't help the fleeting hope that maybe Leto might let him share his bed again sometime this week, before they...

He was pulled from his thoughts by Aveline's arrival at the estate as she was ushered in by Bodahn. The guardswoman and Varric exchanged quick words before she set out with Hawke and a grumpy Carver back out into Hightown.

Leaving Varric and Isabela to their continued scheming, Anders found himself bypassing the library door entirely and taking a quick detour down the tucked away corridor that led down into the estate's kitchens.

Anders had never considered himself to be some sort of fool romantic; the sort to make lavish, grandiose declarations or compose simpering sonnets and poetry about their lover. And yet, as he made his way through the cramped servant's hallway and out into the galley entrance of the oven-warmed kitchen, he couldn't seem to shake the sudden inclination to make some sort of... _gesture_ , after last night.

He would surprise Leto with a bit of breakfast, and maybe they could lock themselves up in the library and spend the entire day alone together, take a break from the world for a few hours. Not to study letters or Maker forsaken Tevinter chests...

So, maybe he was a just bit of a fool romantic after all.

Perhaps it put a bit of a damper on his rakish charms, but Anders was not the least bit reproofed at the thought.

Upon entering the kitchens, he was hit with the thick, pleasing smells of fresh-baked bread and drying meats and spices. He was embarrassed to find his stomach growling in response.

Orana greeted him from her spot at the wooden counter, having no doubt been awake before the sun had even risen. Poor girl might not even have slept after Hawke and Carver had come in so late into the night with the others in tow.

Anders flashed her a winning smile as he bid her good morning, offering to help with whatever chore she was in the midst of, only to have her nearly balk, shaking her head as she insisted graciously that she could handle it.

He made it a point to approach the former slave with a careful kindness, though it was always a bit difficult to allow someone else to dote on him like a servant. Orana was a servant, of course, that was her job now; but Anders was no Amell, and it never failed to make him more than a little bit uncomfortable.

When he told her of his plans for breakfast, Anders found his face heat as she had all but beamed at him before schooling her features and helped him put together a carefully arranged breakfast tray of freshly-baked rolls, thinly sliced cheeses, one red and one green apple, and two glasses of some honey-flavored Marcher beverage spiced with cinnamon that Anders knew Leto favored.

Giving Orana his thanks, he made his way back toward the library while balancing the tray, keeping half an eye trained on his feet as he stepped slowly to avoid spilling. He ignored the whistles from Isabela as he pulled the door open with no small amount of difficulty; one hand precariously balancing the food while his hair, still loose of its tie from the night before, tickled over his nose and cheeks.

Leto was already awake and, Anders was confused to see, fully dressed and armored. The elf was standing just short of where his sword had been propped the night before, now being deftly strapped onto his back.

“Morning,” Anders said a little breathlessly, a shot of nervousness tickling though his stomach as he felt a bit of warmth spread over his cheeks. “You're not going anywhere, are you? I sort of – ”

Anders narrowly avoided letting the tray slip from his fingers as his steps faltered when Leto finally raised his eyes.

They were completely blank.

The brilliance of their color muted and recluse, his face as expertly drawn in as the day they had met just shy of two months ago. Anders had not seen him so emotionless in so long, the sight made his heart speed to a too heavy staccato beat, and he had to fight past the thought that perhaps, he had done something wrong...

_Was it...about last night?_

Setting the tray carefully on the stand by the armchair that they had draped themselves in the night before, Anders managed a smile, a veil of disarming charm coming as easily to him as his magic bursting from his finger tips.

“ – sort of,” Anders began again, “thought we could stay in for today. I raided the kitchens – you hungry? – I got us our own little feast for the morning,” he said, hoping his worry wasn't showing in his ramblings. Anders moved his now free hands up to slide the stray hair falling over his face out of the way and behind his ears.

Leto barely spared the tray a glance, eyes moving back just short of meeting Anders' gaze. “Thank you, but I am not hungry.”

Anders' smile almost wavered at the edges, but he swallowed passed the immediate dryness that coated his throat at the sound of Leto's usually rich voice so flat and ineffectual.

Keeping his own voice as light as he could manage, Anders moved much closer, crowding himself into the other man's personal space to lean in and catch his eye before asking, “Is...everything all right?”

If he were not staring so intently, Anders was certain he would have missed the subtle lines form between the warrior's brow before they smoothed out just as quickly.

“I am fine,” Leto said in that same empty tone, which made Anders' blood run cold in his veins as he was reminded in sharp detail of Tranquil mages, their placid stares and bare statements devoid of self.

Anders continued staring at the other man, at a loss for how to react beyond the guilt and confusion eating at his mind. He leaned in close again, meeting listless green eyes. “Leto, what – “ He began in an almost desperate whisper, but was drowned out by a sharp, banging knock at the library door.

Leto took a deliberate step away from him before moving to open the door, leaving Anders numbly rooted to the spot until he heard Varric's voice calling from outside the library.

“You two better get out here,” Varric was saying, and Anders saw him pull the door open fully and motion for them to follow.

“What's going on?” Anders managed to ask after clearing his dry throat as he and Leto followed the dwarf. Varric led them out into the main entrance way of the Amell estate, where Hawke stood with Aveline, Sebastian, and Carver; and Anders did not miss the tension that was looming over the group in their stony silence.

Merrill and Isabela were there as well, standing near the wall and speaking in hushed tones, but they looked up as Anders, Leto and Varric approached.

“Got me, Blondie,” Varric finally answered, crossing his arms when he came to a stop and looking expectantly from Hawke to Aveline.

"It's Saemus Dumar," Sebastian answered before Hawke or Aveline could open their mouths.

Isabela frowned. "The Viscount's son?"

"Yes," Hawke said slowly. "Apparently I know him? Well – _knew_ him, in any event. He's dead.

Anders saw pirate and dwarf exchange stunned looks.

"Dead?" Varric echoed.

"Murdered," Sebastian corrected grimly with a gruff roll of his accented timbre. "And it would seem there is some conspiracy involved, as all signs are indicating it was _Hawke_ that committed the act."

" _What?_ " Anders and Varric said in the same breath.

Isabela had straightened her usual relaxed posture. “But that isn't even possible, he's been a kid for the past two months!"

Aveline held up a hand. “Yes, we  _know_ that. No one here suspects Hawke.” She did a once over of the group, ginger brow raised. “ _Right?_ ”

Everyone nodded in unison, but Hawke was frowning.

The apostate had stayed calm and subdued while they spoke of his possible involvement in the murder of the Viscount's son, but Isabela's words seemed to have bothered him, his cheeks almost appearing colored. "You still think of me as a child?” He demanded, turning to face her. “I had thought that...after last night...”

Anders didn't get the chance to catch the pirate's reaction beyond a slight widening of her tawny brown eyes, Aveline and Sebastian rounding on her in the same instant, covering her from his view. He did glimpse her boots take a single step back.

“We didn't – “ She began with an air of impatience, but seemed to give up as the guardswoman and prince raised their voices together in heated incredulity.

“Don't tell that you _honestly_ _– “_

“' _After_ _last night_ _'?_ What in the Maker's name happened last night?!” Sebastian demanded, fixing Isabela with an indignant scowl.

“Nothing ' _happened_ ',” Isabela readily snapped back. “You – “

“You know what?” Aveline interrupted again with a raise of her voice, “we don't have time for this rubbish.”

The guardswoman jabbed a finger in Isabela's direction. “ _Later._ ” She moved her attention back to the group as a whole, ignoring Isabela's rude hand gesture that Anders wasn't certain was meant for guard or prince. "Viscount Dumar is on his way to the Chantry as we speak. The Grand Cleric seems to favor that Hawke had nothing to do with it, but that doesn't help us any if Hawke can't be there to defend himself properly.”

  
“Shit,” Varric muttered. “And right now he can't even pick the Viscount out in a crowd.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Anders muttered ostensibly in a quiet voice to Hawke and Leto. “Can't be that hard, can it? He's probably the only one in the crowd wearing a _crown._ ”

Hawke bit back a laugh, and Carver reached out an elbow to jab him in the ribs. Leto did little in the way of reacting at all, and Anders' plastered on smile momentarily slipped.

Thankfully, Aveline didn't appear to have heard him. “Exactly,” She said to Varric. “Which is why it would have been nice if someone had mentioned that you lot found another blighted chest last night.” Her voice hardened, her eyes bearing into Hawke, who shrugged with a quick look in Anders' direction.

Anders glanced between Aveline and Varric.

“Hang on,” he said slowly, realization dawning. “You mean for us to change? Today? Right _now?"_

Varric reached a hand up to rub at the back of his neck before meeting Anders' gaze with a sympathetic look. “Running low on our options here, Blondie.”

"But what if they aren't immediately capable of acting?" Sebastian's voice spoke up as Anders stood momentarily frozen, mind reeling. "We have no idea what state they'll be in when they change back."

" _If_ they change back, Choir Boy." Varric pointed out. "This may well just be a bust again."

Anders couldn't even deny that hope flared bright in his chest at the possibility, but he trained his expression to give none of that hope away.

It was selfish. Selfish and foolish when someone he had come to view as a close friend needed things to return to their proper, un-magically-influenced state of order.

But...

Anders chanced another glance at Leto, but the warrior still had that blank mask so resolutely in place, he tore his eyes way just as quickly, his chest tightening painfully.

“And if it is?” Sebastian continued. “Hawke can't just speak to the Viscount as he is now.”

“Well, maybe he could just explain what's happened?” Merrill offered encouragingly. “With the chests. I'm sure the Viscount won't hold it against him, it was only an accident.”

Anders couldn't hold in his short bark of laughter. “Yes, I'm sure that'll go over brilliantly! – 'Excuse me, extremely important figure head of Kirkwall? You know that one apostate that has somehow managed to gain your complete trust? Well, it seems he's gone and magically erased nearly a decade of his own life and that of three others. But don't worry! Still _completely_ harmless.”

Hawke looked torn between wanting to return Anders' grin and avoid a cuff from both Aveline and Sebastian.

Merrill's face fell. “Oh, well, I suppose you're right. Does sound a bit...”

“Irresponsible?” Aveline snapped through gritted teeth.

Hawke winced.

"We need to at least try." Aveline insisted firmly, her tone thick with a finality that silenced any further arguments. “Bring the chest here, let's get this over with.”

Hawke shared a look with Carver before they both made for the library, presumably to retrieve the newest artifact.

Anders' eyes immediately sought Leto for his reaction. The elf was staring at the ground, his face as carefully shielded as it had been all morning, but...there was a tension in his frame; his body stiff and rigid as though he were holding himself very still.

\- - -

 _They cannot truly be planning to do this_ now _._

 _Vishante kaffas_ – he had to leave.

Leto didn't have time to plan or worry about being followed, he needed to get the Docks back in Lowtown, find a way aboard a ship and out to Minrathous before it was too late to act.

Would they attempt to overpower him? How far would they go to stop him from leaving? How far would he let them try before fighting back?

The now familiar touch of Anders' hand lacing with his own brought Leto's eyes up to fleetingly meet honey gold. He looked away just as quickly.

“Hey, it's going to fine,” Anders murmured softly, and when he leaned to press their shoulders together lightly, Leto felt his skin prickle between hot and cold, the act causing panic rather than comfort. 

Leto did not meet the mage's eyes again as he yanked his hand wordlessly from between warm fingers, avoiding the stark look of hurt he saw flash over the other man's face in the corner of his vision.

He didn't have time for the ache in his chest, for Anders to say things that only served to remind him of what he could never truly have, of what he was taking from this man.

Anders would be fine –  _safe_ – without him. Hawke would take care of the rest, keep the mage away from the Chantry, from the Southern Templars that sought to steal him away, and from any other danger that might befall him in Leto's absence.

 _Leto_ was the danger now, to all of them; and he  _needed to leave_ _._

The floor gave a small tremor when the heavy weight of the chest was slammed to the ground, making Leto jump with its sudden close proximity.

Hawke was also suddenly right there next to him, his hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Leto jerked away from the touch, his eyes moving to the door again. Sebastian and Aveline were now standing before it with the others as they backed away, and he felt his throat constrict with a fresh spike of panic at the realization that he had hesitated too long.

His eyes moved over the high reaching windows, and for a fleeting moment he considered breaking them and –

“Leto, it'll be alright,” Hawke murmured amicably, seeming to take his demeanor in as nervousness. “Just stand still, we're right here.”

Carver gave an impatient huff from his spot on the other side of the chest.

“No – you don't understand,” Leto said, a touch too frantic.

Anders was hovering near him, and he did not need to look up to see the concern no doubt spread over the blonde's features.

Hawke and Carver were eyeing him curiously, and he felt crowded by them all, the room growing too small as he finally found it in himself to take a step back, eyes lifting to scan for a way out, away from –

Anders' and Hawke's hands were lighting with magic.

Leto wasted no more time, his body jolting him into action. His legs carried him swiftly toward the nearest window, taking three long strides and reaching around to unstrap the sword from his back. He could hear voices raising behind him, hear the press of boots and armor.

His elbow was caught, and Leto found himself being yanked back around, his eyes moving passed the figure that had stopped him to the chest which was alight with glowing script.

“Are you mad?!” Carver's harsh voice brought him back to where he stood before him, the boy attempting unsuccessfully to move him by the elbow toward the chest.

When Leto went to wrench himself free, he was met with two more hands on his shoulders, nearly pulling him off balance.

“Leto,” Anders breathed, brow furrowed. “What in Andraste's name is wrong?”

Leto wasted no time in responding, pulling his arm free from Carver's grip, he went to yank his shoulders free, only to find Hawke join them with a hand shooting out to grip Leto's left bicep tightly.

“Leto – please, we'll turn back anyway – you can't just run from this.” Hawke tried to reason, his eyes moving between Leto and the still lit artifact.

What happened next seemed to pass in slowed time, adding an unshakable feeling of helplessness as Leto was unable to react swiftly enough to keep up.

The all too familiar sound of ancient wood creaking with a deafening snap against steel hinges shot through the air, signaling that time had run out.

Fresh panic and adrenaline coursed through him like the shock of a spell tickling and itching over his skin, and he made to free himself, twisting around and out of Hawke's hold in one deft movement, the flat surface of one of his palms hitting Anders' square in the chest in his haste to break free.

Leto fell back, pushed by the force of his shove and the renewed pull of someone from behind – Carver or Hawke – he didn't see who. His eyes were on Anders. The mage was stumbling from Leto's blow as he tried unsuccessfully to get his feet under him, falling against the very window that Leto had been aiming to break.

Leto could see Anders' mouth forming his name, but he could not hear him...

He could not _hear._

The world shifted, and Anders was gone. Fading from view with the Amell estate around him, the light shining through from the Hightown streets cutting to a harsh black.

Leto found that he couldn't move to shield his eyes when a blinding light broke through the sudden blackness, a bathe of blue and white energy, life –

His mind emptied of thought – of _anything_ – as pain lanced and burned and tore at every nerve in his body.

Nothing registered but the flow of thick, unending white-hot fire surging in his veins, bursting through his skin only to light fresh, cutting pressure over the surface, sinking back down inside –

He couldn't think, couldn't _breath –_

 _Pain._ Nothing but pain, pressure, the pull of that energy coming to life inside of him, a pulse of something wholly alive coexisting with his already beating heart –

Fenris fell to his knees with a short, bitten off gasp, and he could hear, see, feel.

_Remember._

Blood was hot and fresh on his hands, coating the entirety of his body as he breathed in the muggy, tropical air around him, the smell of blood and viscera thick and cloying. He shot to his feet in realization, regretting the action as he took in the horrifying sight of the dozens of slain bodies at his feet.

This was not Kirkwall, it was a memory. One that Fenris had relived time and again in his sleep, his nightmares.

But he stood here now, and it was raw and fresh, and _real._ The Fog Warriors slaughtered by his hand without thought or hesitation. Bile rose in his throat, and as he turned to face where he knew Danarius was standing, the fear and doubt that had plagued him all those years ago was replaced with fresh hatred and rage, edging his vision in black.

Magic skittered in sharp pricks over his skin, forcing his markings to flare in harsh brilliance as a net of energy coated his body. Fenris snarled, reacted without thought, surging forth to snake his gauntlet out and grasp the Magister by the throat, lifting him clear off his feet.

\- - -

The spirit energy at Anders' palms was snuffed resolutely out as his back was slammed against the nearest wall with enough force to cause stars to burst at the front of his vision, swimming before his eyes in pulses of indistinguishable color.

He tried to swallow as they cleared, but the intense pressure at his throat would not allow it. When he was able to focus on who it was that had him practically lifted off his feet against the wall, the world seemed to pause as Leto's eyes met his, dark brows drawn down harshly in a fierce glare that looked so incredibly out of place on his face, his expression almost wild with fury.

And his hair looked –

Anders blinked rapidly, attempting to right what he saw, but that only served to confuse him further as he noticed what appeared to be white tattoos in stark decoration over Leto's brown skin. Ornate lines that wove evenly from his chin down his neck and – and _glowed_ _?_

In fact his jaw almost appeared to be more defined, and any softness Anders knew his face to hold was now somehow absent...

Anders realized at the back of his mind that something was wrong here. That he should be trying to pull away, to fight back against Leto's hold around his neck, that the harsh pressure at his throat was blooming into an increasingly concentrated pain with each hard won breath.

Anders brought a hand up, fingers feeling numb as they curled weakly over Leto's metal encased wrist. He opened his mouth, but no words could find their way passed his lips.

Something seemed to shift in the elf's eyes, his pupils narrowing and his brow softening as confusion warred with his rage, and he looked almost as though he were waking from some sort of daze.

The hold on Anders loosened a fraction and he gasped in a deep pull of air –

Someone shouted, their voice equal parts familiar and unfamiliar to Anders, but the identify of the speaker seemed ridiculously unimportant as _what_ they had shouted registered.

_Fenris._

There was a thunderous pulse of power, and Anders' addled brain absently identified it as force magic as Leto – _Fenris?_ –  was thrown back from his view, the elf's hand ripping free from its flagging grip on Anders' throat.

Anders immediately slumped limply down the wall, his legs giving out under the sudden weight of his feet meeting the floor.


	18. Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things are going to be a little different in terms of the canon timeline for some Act 2 events, but nothing too different. Thanks for stopping in to read! (And I apologize for my slow writing again.)

Garrett Hawke was well aware that the life he had led thus far was far from ordinary.

And it was not just that he was an apostate, or even that he was a former Ferelden refugee turned Kirkwall nobility that had survived the Fifth Blight with the aid of a dragon.

Though those were always exceptional conversation starters. Particularly the dragon-shape-shifting-witch bit.

No, not only was his life undeniably out of the ordinary – it was proving to be completely and utterly _bizarre._

Spending the past two months in Kirkwall as his teenage self; naïve and tactless and fumbling without the first clue about...well,  _anything_ really – was not something Hawke could even begin to properly explain if prompted. His memories of the past few weeks felt somehow jumbled and off-key if looked at from his current perspective, and yet they also somehow made perfect sense. After all, it had been _him_ that thought those things and said those words, hadn't it?

Maker's breath but this was confusing.

And then to top it all off – he just had the absolutely thrilling experience of getting to relive each of his most painful memories. _Unpleasant_ didn't even begin to cover it.

Much like the situation he had awoken to.

Like something out of one of his own personal nightmares, he found himself waking from the agonizingly _real_ sight of his mother cradling Bethany's lifeless form in her arms (and _fuck_ , it was all so fucked up but it had been so nice to just hear Bethany's voice again...), to Fenris suspending Anders in the air by his _neck_ , choking the life out of him.

All and all – really not one of Hawke's better days.

Something had been off though, and he knew that. Fenris and Anders had never really gotten on (perhaps that was a bit of an understatement, but Hawke had always considered himself to be somewhat of an optimist when it came to his friends) but they had never become _violent_ with one another, despite a few threats to do so.

After the initial shock of it had worn off, Hawke had managed to force Fenris to let go of the young mage, and even now he felt pulled between feeling justified for his actions in using magic against the warrior and the guilt over having acted so rashly.

After quickly helping Fenris back up onto his feet, Hawke had steered him away from the others, a bit fearful that the enraged elf might try to attack the still-young Anders again.

But Fenris had gone willingly, silently, with him away from their companions.

When they had crossed the threshold of his estate out into the stone-paved streets of Hightown, Hawke was finally forced to release the vice-like grip he had on one of Fenris' hard biceps as the spike-encased warrior tore himself free with what Hawke could only assume was a narrowly suppressed _snarl._

Hawke remained silent for a few moments, allowing the other man to compose himself after what was no doubt an equally _unpleasant_ experience on his part. Not to mention that he and Anders –

 _Leto_ and Anders...

Hawke reached his bare hand up to rub at his temples. His mind was split between a now familiar affection for his friends little romance, and his more current, rational alarm over the whole thing.

“Garrett, we need to get you to the Chantry.”

Hawke's head snapped up at the sound of his younger brother's voice, filled out in its adult registry. He found Carver to be standing taller than himself once more, his blue eyes steely.

The serious stance and stony expression that Carver presented were somewhat thwarted by the sight of his clothes falling off of him in shreds where they had been ripped at the seams. Perhaps it would have even been worth a joke or two in any other situation; but Hawke was not – Maker mark the moment – quite in the mood for making jokes.

Instead, he nodded once to his brother before turning to face his friend, needing to say, _something..._

“Fenris,” Hawke began quietly, but the warrior was having none of it.

“Not now, Hawke,” Fenris ground out with what seemed to be a forced calm, his facade noticeably cracking at the edges; shown by tension set in his stance, his markings faintly swimming light, the harsh lines forming between his dark brows.

Hawke hesitated. He wanted to pry, to apologize, to perhaps even demand an explanation; but was for once unable to find the words.

There would be time later to talk. Right now, they were needed elsewhere in this Maker forsaken city.

Switching to the present, Hawke concentrated on the more pressing task ahead of him. He had no doubt in his mind who was responsible for Saemus' murder; and his patience with Mother Patrice had run out long before she had decided to take her fanaticism a step further by slaying the Viscount's son.

“Hawke,” Aveline appeared at the doorway with Isabela and Sebastian close behind, an air of urgency surrounding them.

“Is Anders okay?” Hawke asked quickly, his mind turning to the still young mage with a pang of concern. He had always considered him and Anders close – all of them were close to him, in their own way. Like family.

But the past few weeks he had seen Anders, Leto, and even _Carver_ become just that much closer to him in their shared experiences together.

Without the often overwhelming responsibilities that the City of Chains presented to loom over their heads, the four of them had simply been naïve and careless while spending hours in the Amell estate's library together.

Studying and copying down text reminiscent of another time he had spent at that same age in Ferelden with his father and his siblings. Teaching Leto to read and watching him come further and further passed that wall he put up for himself. Joking with an Anders he had not thought he would meet; free from the pressures of Justice, relaxed and playful.

Of course, to his younger self it was all some sort of fun dream. His father and Bethany were still alive, his brother hadn't grown to resent him, his mother did not blame him for not being strong enough to hold their dwindling family together anymore...

Hawke didn't miss the shift in everyone's gaze toward Fenris when he said Anders' name.

“He's fine, just seems a bit shaken,” Isabela said to Hawke, though her eyes remained on Fenris, who looked away as soon as she had spoken. Hawke wanted to ask her what she made of all of this – of _everything –_ but it wasn’t the time just yet. Having her near would be enough for now.

Hawke didn't know what that meant exactly. He barely knew what to make of his and Isabela's relationship most of the time – save for the fact that he was crazy about the rogue and she insisted feelings be left out of it – but she had really looked after him when he been stuck as a thoughtless teenager. Even when there was nothing physical for him to offer her. Just...himself, and that had been enough, hadn't it?

It was making it that much harder to deny those pesky feelings she was so adamant about leaving out.

“There isn't much time to explain,” Aveline began briskly, strolling past him and Carver a few steps before turning to face them. “The Viscount – ”

“Then let's not waste anything more with needless explanations,” Hawke cut in, glancing first to his brother before moving on to Fenris.

Fenris, who was finally meeting his eyes. And Hawke could see in the warrior's expression – just barely visible – the answer to a question he didn't bother voicing aloud.

Hawke held the warrior's intense gaze when he announced clearly,

“We remember everything.”

\- - -

Anders was quickly becoming impatient.

“I said – I'm _fine,”_ He tried again, moving to dodge Merrill's outstretched hand before she tried anything involving her blood. Or his blood. Maker, anyone's _blood._

The Dalish elf was crouched before him, her wide, mossy eyes shining in a way that Anders most assuredly did not appreciate. The tips of her red-painted fingers lit with a precarious green light.

Anders wasn't quite sure how blood mages used healing magic – if they truly could at all – and he was in no mood to find out.

“Blondie, c'mon, Daisy's just trying to help.” Varric offered from his right, and Anders made an effort not to scowl between them.

“And how many times do I have to tell you that I don't need anybody's help?” Anders implored with obvious exasperation. “I mean, Andraste's frilly knickers – just _who_ is the bloody healer here?”

“Lethallin, you're shaking.” Merrill pointed out in a soft voice, and Anders was embarrassed to realize that he was. Just a bit.

Using the wall behind him as leverage, he pulled himself back up. Balling his fists tightly for a moment and steeling himself against the tremors that had worked themselves over his nerves, the beating of his heart feeling too loud against his temples.

“Just um...Just taken by surprise, is all.” Anders deflected, flexing his fingers a bit as Merrill straightened up and continued to eye him doubtfully.

“Your neck – ” Merrill began again, but Anders had heard enough.

“Is _fine.”_ Anders repeated firmly.

Merrill chewed at her bottom lip, and Anders suspected she held it between her teeth to keep from trying to offer more help. Varric was giving him a long, measuring look that held a mirror of Merrill's concern.

Anders' eyes moved past them to scan the room for anyone else, only finding Orana watching them solicitously as she went about her chores. When he found his gaze lingering over the empty chest at the center of the room, he looked quickly away.

“Everyone's gone for the Chantry, then?” He asked after the loaded silence had stretched too long. He didn't bother waiting for the obvious answer of 'yes' before continuing, “Hawke'll sort things out, I suppose...” Anders paused thoughtfully.

“He's rather hairy as an adult, isn't he?”

Merrill blinked, and Varric let loose a startled laugh, but Anders kept going before they could get a word in.

“And – _powerful_ – you can feel it, can't you? Coming off him in waves and all?” He asked Merrill vaguely, not expecting her to answer as he still continued talking. Bugger it all he was rambling.

“And let's not pretend not to notice how, well, _attractive_ he is. Isabela's a very lucky woman, I'll tell you that much. And Maker, Carver! What were his parents feeding him back in Ferelden – whole nugs? The boy is _massive!”_

Merrill giggled, apparently amused by Anders' observations.

“And Fenris – “

Anders' voice caught in his throat for a beat, and he could feel Merrill tense at his side, Varric's smile freezing on his face before wavering at the edges.

“Fenris looks rather different from Leto, doesn't he?” Anders asked with that same forced joking tone, trying hard to ignore the shaking quality that had snuck into his voice. “I could have sworn he had - white hair? And tattoos? And they felt very strange, almost like...” Anders trailed off, watching as Merrill shot Varric an uneasy look.

“Same eyes though," Anders tried to swallow, but there was a thickness clogging his sore throat.

Leto was there at the front of his mind, there with the Hawke and Carver that Anders had come to know so well, unable to help himself with a mental comparison of all the differences he had just barely glimpsed before the three of them had disappeared from the estate without him.

And as irrational as it all seemed (but who needed rationality when your life was _this_ irrational) Anders felt somehow – abandoned _._

Like he had been left behind in a world he knew he didn't belong in. Like _they_ had left him behind, leaving him with three older strangers in their wake.

He was being ridiculous. Everything was fine. He was _fine,_ right?

“It's almost a bit funny, isn't it?” Anders asked them with his smile crooked. “I'm in love with him, right? And he – “

Anders could feel Fenris' hand around his neck, but he shook that off. That wasn't...that wasn't his fault. He didn't know...

Did he?

“He um," Anders fought to swallow again, "he  _hates_ me, doesn't he?”

Damn that wasn't funny, was it? He was supposed to say something _funny._

Anders let out a laugh, ignoring the arm Merrill reached around him. Ignoring the long sigh from Varric and the press of the dwarf's hand on his arm. Ignoring the stinging in his eyes as he tried to stop the humorless laughter from escaping, from letting the tears gather in his eyes.

\- - -

Hawke's conversation with the Viscount had not taken long, and Mother Patrice, it turns out, would no longer be a problem for the mage, having been shot down by a nameless Qunari assassin.

It was all rather anti-climactic, particularly after what they had all just experienced together. Though that was probably for the best. Fenris doubted even Hawke could take much more upheaval just yet.

After Hawke spent some time speaking with both the Viscount and the Grand Cleric, they all left the Chantry together as a group, save for Sebastian. The archer had been pulled into some form of Chantry related politics by Grand Cleric Elthina.

Fenris followed at the back, watching Hawke and his brother speaking in detail with Aveline. He knew that the mage would want to talk to him, but he was grateful that the others seemed determined to keep his attention for now.

He did not know if he _could_ talk about any of it just yet. And if there was anyone that would somehow manage to force him to do just that, it was Hawke.

After they had cleared the Chantry's court yard, Isabela seemed to have lost interest in the whatever it was that Hawke and Aveline were now talking about, as she slowed her pace to walk at Fenris' side. He spared her a cursory glance, but regretted it the moment she began speaking.

“So, about you and Anders...”

Fenris grit his teeth, and proceeded to ignore her. He generally enjoyed Isabela's candid way of speaking, but she was very foolishly poking the wolf in that moment.

“You should probably go talk to him.”

Fenris continued to ignore her, but his face tightened in irritation.

“Look, all I'm saying is – maybe it's best to spend what time you can with certain people,” She went on, not the least bit put off by his apparent growing agitation. “With the world the way it is, you never know when you're time together will be up.”

“Planning on leaving some time soon, are you?” Fenris asked with disdain, cutting his eyes in her direction. “If this has something to do with whatever it is going on between you and Hawke – I'm not interested in hearing it.”

Isabela's eyes narrowed for a moment before she shrugged it off, lifting an arm to stretch above her head with an easy smile.

“Don't make me start on about how pretty your eyes are Fenris,” She deflected breezily enough before throwing him a wicked smirk, “Or maybe you'd rather talk about _Anders'_ pretty eyes?”

 _Brown, the color of honey._ Fenris' mind supplied instantly, and nearly tripped at the inane thought. He threw Isabela a lingering glare.

“We're done talking.”

“Suits me,” The pirate replied in an almost sing-song voice.

True to his word, Fenris spent the last few moments of the walk back to the Amell estate in silence. When they arrived at the doors, Carver nodded at them all before entering, claiming he had to go see his mother about some things.

Isabela lounged by the door, her sharp eyes moving from Fenris to Hawke as the mage finally made his way to Fenris.

They shared a long look, and Fenris was the first to look away.

“You doin' all right?”

Fenris scoffed under his breath.

“Are you?”

“I'm managing,” Hawke leaned into a relaxed stance, crossing his arms. “Hasn't really...sunk in yet.”

Fenris nodded slowly, but offered no further comment. His fleeting exchange with Isabela seemed to have drained him of any words he might be willing to offer for the time being.

“Fenris, about earlier – with Anders,” Hawke trailed off when Fenris' eyes cut in his direction, silencing him with his scowl. The mage sighed, moving his unarmored hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

“I just need to know that you're not going to...to hurt him again.”

_Again._

Fenris clenched his fists hard enough for the sharp points of his gauntlets to dig painfully at his palms.

“I know what's happened is difficult – that...that maybe you might hold something against him, but – “

“I won't.”

Hawke let his hand drop. “You won't?”

“No,” Fenris said curtly. “You need not fear for his safety in my presence.”

Hawke's amber eyes studied him for a moment before his face broke out into a familiar grin. “That's – great, Fen. We'll get him back to normal, and then we can put this whole mess behind us.” The mage motioned toward the doors. “You should stop in, Orana's probably got supper going, and you can grab some of your things –

“No.”

Fenris tried not to let the way Hawke's face fell bother him, and turned on heel before the other man could keep talking. He couldn't do this now.

He couldn't just 'put this behind him'.

“I'll be at my mansion if you need anything of me, Hawke.” Fenris informed the mage as he walked away. He counting ten steps before he heard the doors click shut.

Fenris counted exactly ten more steps before stopping, standing in the waning light of the Hightown streets. Two guards shot him curious glances, but went on their way. Perhaps recognizing him.

Fenris himself did not know if he knew them, his gaze having moved upward when he shifted his stance back.

He could see the Amell estate's library window from where he stood resolutely still on the smooth, cobbled streets. It was alight with a small guttering candle he knew had to be the one set atop a table tucked away to the left.

It was Anders' favorite.

“ _Perhaps you should only light that when it's actually dark. It's just going to burn out faster if you keep lighting it during the day.”_

“ _I know, I know,” Anders said with a dismissive wave of his lightly-freckled hand, before turning that same hand and lighting the tips of his fingers with a low flame, catching the wick with the heat. “But I like the way it smells. We didn't have any candles with scents back in the Circle.”_

_It seemed wasteful to Leto, but Anders had that infectious smile that had him forgoing this observation._

“ _Smells like, the rain, I think,” Anders announced as he set it back in the spot he had designated for it. “Or, I dunno – the air outside_ after _it rains.”_

Fenris lost track of how long he stood in that spot, watching the window, watching the light from the candle flicker. He did not move to make the lone journey back to his mansion until it had been snuffed out.

\- - -


	19. Secondhand Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone still with me; thank you so much for reading this. This chapter really is appallingly overdue. But still, I really hope you enjoy it!! <3

It was quiet.

Which was strange, because mornings were never quiet.

Orana should be awake by now. Milling about to open the curtains and dust the furniture as she went. Ruthless, right on her heels; should be running from window to window with excited barks at the newly revealed Hightown streets. And Sandal and Bodahn should have arrived with the first breaks of sunlight, letting themselves in and promptly seeing to Hawke's endless affairs and subsequent paperwork.

Anders was probably still sleeping.

But then...

Why couldn't he hear the mage's soft snores? The frequent, incoherent little mumbles he made while he dreamed? The haphazardous tossing and turning of his long limbs under piles of blankets?

Shifting in his sleep, he strained to hear...something. Anything. Attempting to piece together why he could hear nothing at all.

Still caught between sleeping and waking, he remembered the morning before he had awoken to...

A kiss.

The start of a sleepy smile edged onto his face.

He remembered the soft press of lips to his forehead, over his mouth. The slide of gentle fingers carding pleasantly through his hair, the warm scent of elfroot and cotton; and that bright, inexplicably sweet ozone unique to healing magic.

And...a voice. An easy, soothing baritone whispering softly against his skin in a Ferelden accent, pulling him from his dreams.

“ _I'll be right back, love.”_

Fenris' eyes shot open.

It was dark, quiet, and smelled heavily of stale alcohol and rotting wood.

With his markings pulsing relentlessly with an ever-present ache, Fenris came awake with a sudden, sickening clarity. He moved to sit himself upright, but immediately regretted his haste as the dark room he had awoken in began to spin.

The dark room that was his wine cellar.

In his mansion.

Not, the Amell estate.

Fenris groaned low in his throat, his limbs moving sluggishly under him as his stomach rolled with a fresh wave of nausea. When he moved to stand, empty and cracked wine bottles jostled around him on the stone floor of the cellar, echoing painfully in his head with each clatter. He was still in his armor, and he could feel the dull throbs over his body where it had dug into his skin while he had laid on the hard floor.

On his feet, Fenris held himself steady. His usually sharp eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, a throbbing sting flaring behind them with every blink.

The room was, like most in the mansion, completely filthy. The endless cellar walls still held rows of dusty wine, even after three years of Fenris freely plundering the stocks. But many empty or shattered bottles littered the floor, the smearing stains of their contents painting the stone in shades of red, purple, and black.

Turning from the mess, Fenris took to the wooden steps that led to the main level of his mansion. He attempted to ignore the nagging reminder of his rolling stomach and throbbing head, which needlessly indicated he was badly hungover. More so than he had been in years.

That he was, somehow, no longer used to consuming so much alcohol in one sitting.

Fenris felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he grit his teeth, hand flat over the wall as he guided himself into the mansion's main hall.

Each step; each flex of muscle and skin; every movement bringing skitters of burning pain along the edges of the lyrium branded into his body. A pain that was so familiar, all that he had known in his limited memory.

A pain that he had lived without for two months.

Cobwebs and dust decorated every surface – which was not necessarily anything new, given that Fenris had never once cleaned since taking up residence – but there was a decidedly still, untouched quality to the mansion that unnerved him.

Coming to a stop between the barren hearth and the table, Fenris' eyes lingered over the newest addition of slaver corpses at the room's entrance, pausing over the slain body of the Altus mage.

He felt the faintest echo of Leto's panic in something he could only identify as memory, but it was quick to be replaced with his own brutal satisfaction at the sight.

That satisfaction was just as quick to cool at the memory of Leto kneeling – of  _him,_  kneeling, at her command. 

Leto would have gone with her willingly.

Fenris felt his blood run with twin pools of hot and cold in his veins; a shot of fury accompanied by the faintest echo of panic.

He had come so close.  _So close_  – to returning to Danarius. After  _years_ of running. Slaughtering hunters, looking over his shoulder at the slightest upsets, carefully clutching his newfound freedom too tightly to truly live it. Waiting for Danarius to return, waiting for the moment he could face his former master, to pay him in kind by having the very weapon he sought to create destroy him personally.

Everything over in the form of a willing slave, obediently returning meekly to his master.

Fenris' rising contempt and fury twisted with his stomach and the snarl that had threatened to curl his lips turned quickly into a shudder, bile rising in his throat as his body fought to expel the alcohol that clung unpleasantly in his system. 

Fenris moved to the table, his balance close to staggering as he slid onto a plushly cushioned chair, leaning back as his mind spun; his thoughts jumbled and half-formed; the echos of another mind lingering in whispers against his temple. 

The remnants of last night's drinking lingered, but there was not nearly enough of an alcohol-induced haze to block out the heavy burden of his new found thoughts, his half-formed memories, the  _ache_  of the lyrium etched into his body. 

The markings that he had chosen to take.  _His choice._

Fenris lost it then.

He doubled over on the chair as bile rose uncontrollably in his throat; vomiting clear onto the floor, his markings pulsing with a punctuating pain each time he wretched. He coughed when his stomach had emptied, his mouth filled with the acidic taste of last night's wine, his head throbbing.

When he could catch his breath, he wiped his mouth and leaned back in the chair with a shuddering groan, his raw throat tightening with unwanted emotion.

He had willingly become this. Willingly undergone the experimentations,  _willingly_  become Danarius' weapon.

Fenris choked back a bitten off growl, burying it tight in his chest before it could form into a cry.

He had wanted to know of his past, but some things...

Venhedis he had not anticipated this.

That he had killed others to become what he was. That he had wanted the  _honor._  His stomach twisted again, but it was now empty of anything but clenching nausea.

Fenris' markings lit for a painful beat before calming, and he drew in a deep breath, holding it in himself before exhaling in a shudder.

He had drowned himself in wine the night before, to keep these thoughts at bay. To keep the pain of his markings an after thought. To fight thoughts of his hands around Anders' throat. 

Fenris' brow was knit, his mouth twisting painfully. 

He wanted to drink more, but the very thought of more alcohol made his body tremble and shudder.

It was a twisted truth, that he had this lyrium laid into his skin willingly, and it  _clawed_  at his sanity; but...

He had done it, not for himself, not for some form of glory or play for Danarius' approval, but for the family he had not known existed before killing Hadriana two months before.

For his sister, Varania. For his mother.

He could conjure a hazed picture of them in his mind. Like a near fresh memory that he hadn't thought of for a week or so; this image in Leto's mind that Fenris strained to recapture in his own head.

His mother was dark in complexion and black-haired like he had once been. Hard-working and laborious; her voice husky and smooth, wrapping him up like her arms, once so strong but becoming increasingly frail the fresher the memory...

In contrast Varania had red hair and pale skin, entirely unlike Leto's own coloring. Fenris briefly wondered if they had different fathers. Leto had not once thought of a father, nor ever mentioned one.

His sister's eyes matched his own in shade and shape perfectly though, and that of their mother's. In Leto's memories, she had been cautious and bright, offering passing smiles when she was able, words of encouragement. He had a fleeting image of her pale hand wrapping in his own dark one, of her laughter as she ran and he chased, them as children, playing.

Of her hands, lighting with magic.

Fenris' temple throbbed, and he let out a shaking breath.

Varania was a mage. His own sister, a  _mage..._

Fenris was unsure how to feel about this. He  _was_  sure that he felt an immediate attachment to this girl, his sister. His family. Leto's clear, distinct love for her coming through memory to catch hold of Fenris, almost making him feel guilty for viewing her any differently knowing she was born with magic. 

He loved her. He couldn't stop himself from it, the welling of emotion. He loved Varania, he loved his mother. It was undeniably, irreversible. He felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to know how she was, if she was safe, to  _protect_  them both. 

It was Leto's feelings mixed with the memories, Fenris realized. Nothing had meant more to him than their safety.

Fenris struggled to remember more of Leto's passing thoughts of his family, but...

Fenris hadn't realized he had laid his head on the cool surface of the polished wooden table until his eyes had opened again, a memory taking hold unbidden.

“ _D'you have someone waiting back home?”_

Fenris closed his eyes again, screwing them shut and gritting his teeth against the warring in his mind. He was nauseous, confused, overwhelmed; and he wanted to push this weeks old memory –  _every_  memory – of Leto's away, out of his mind.

He was  _not_  that man anymore. 

But even as Fenris fought against it, Leto's voice sounded in his head. And despite  _everything_ – Fenris almost welcomed it. These fleeting moments he could glimpse, even if they were not truly his own memories...

“ _Are we not supposed to be translating this text, Anders?” Leto deflected, his eyes remaining downcast on letters he could not truly comprehend._

_They had a task laid out before them. How could Anders think that speaking of things that held no contextual importance would aid them in their endeavor? It was a waste of time._

_Anders rolled his eyes. “Maker, Leto, that'll take ages. It's been hours and we've only just started. And,” the blonde mage propped his stubbled chin on his hand, which rested at the elbow over the table, “we're due for a break, I'd say. I'm getting bloody exhausted already. You've shown me that my Tevene isn't nearly as good as I thought it was.”_

“ _It is not,” Leto agreed drly._

_As soon as the words left his lips, he wanted to take them back; fear and remorse taking hold after having spoken so flagrantly –_

_Anders let out a laugh, and Leto glanced back up, remembering himself._

_Anders would not take offense, he realized, shaking himself off._

“ _If I didn't know you any better,” Anders said with clear amusement in his golden eyes, “I would think that was almost a joke.”_

 _Leto said nothing, and Anders pressed on with, “Come off it, then. It's just a bit of conversation. I mean, I can see how saying more than_  three whole sentences  _in one afternoon might be a bit_ trying  _for you. But I figured we could practice.”_

_Leto did not raise to the mage's bait, keeping his voice even when he rumbled, “We have a task, Anders. I would see it finished without delay.”_

_Anders leaned back in his chair, and Leto didn't miss the mage rolling his eyes. “Maker, but you're a bit of a prude, aren't you? It's almost as though I'm back at Kinloch Hold! Trapped in a dusty library, copying texts.” He glanced a Leto. “At least I can enjoy the view, though, eh?”_

_Leto kept his face impassive, ignoring the mage's flirtations. “Fine. Say we...take a break – ”_

_Anders muffled a laugh._

_Leto suppressed the urge to scowl, his brow twitching. “What?” His voice remained just this side of neutral._

“ _Just – the way you said 'take a break'.”_

“ _Is my accent a bother?” Leto asked evenly, ever-irritated with Anders'_ constant  _need to make everything a joke._

“ _No, no; you know I find it charming. I told you – your voice is knee-bendingly sexy,” Anders waved a hand casually, and Leto grit his teeth, his mind going blank for the space of two breaths before the mage continued, “But the way you said it,” the mage pitched his voice lower and spoke with a terrible attempt at a Tevinter accent, “'Take a..._ break _.'” he laughed again, “Like it's something_ torturous  _and_ wrong _."_

 _It_ was  _wrong. Everything in Leto fought against the very implication of idleness. Slaves do not take breaks._

“ _I do not see the point.”_

“ _Of what? Maybe stretching your legs?” Anders' own long legs stretched out under the table as he said this. “Close our eyes? Maybe skiv off and raid the kitchen?”_

“ _It accomplishes nothing.”_

“ _It_ 'accomplishes'  _whatever you want it to," Anders said, “Leto we don't_ have  _to do anything, you know. We could leave – right now. Disappear and do whatever we like.”_

_Leto's eyes widened. “We cannot.”_

_Anders chuckled, though this time it held a bit less mirth. “Andraste's woolen socks but you're impossible. I'm not planning any escapes any time soon. I was just wondering if you had someone back home that would miss you, all right? We can spare a moments rest to talk.”_

_Leto studied his hands, thinking this over._

“ _My absence would be noticed,” Leto finally said carefully, hoping that answering could return them to their work, “Master would not be pleased.”_

_Anders' lopsided smile fell. “That is...not what I meant.”_

“ _I apologize.”_

“ _Don't do that,” Anders snapped, “I wasn't asking after that bastard – it's not like I give a damn about any Templars. I was talking about – friends, family, or...er, you know. Whatever...” The mage's voice became a slight mumble as it tapered off, face coloring a bit._

_It took Leto a moment to realize that Anders was waiting for him to answer, his mind having paused on the disrespectful way this Southern mage had referred to his Master as a 'bastard'. But he brushed it off, knowing that Anders was often disrespectful._

“ _Yes.”_

_Anders sat up a bit in his chair. “You do?”_

“ _I do. I have family.”_

“ _Really?” Anders sounded a bit surprised. “Family, huh? And, er, are they...?”_

“ _Slaves?” Leto asked, when Anders trailed off. The mage nodded, looking almost uncomfortable. “Yes, they are.”_

_There was a brief moment of silence._

“ _And?” Anders asked, voice impatient._

“ _And what?”_

“ _Aren't you going to tell me about them?” Anders pressed. “That's the entire point of this break, you know? Getting to know each other? Tell me about your family, then.”_

_Why? Leto wanted to ask. There was nothing important to know about himself that Anders didn't know already. He was a slave. A bodyguard. His purpose ended there. His mother and sister..._

“ _We have work to do,” Leto said instead, easily avoiding Anders' gaze. He did not want to talk about them, not now. It made his chest hurt._

_He...missed them._

_For a long moment, Anders said nothing. Leto resolutely studied the new alphabet chart that Hawke and Anders had drawn up for him a few days before while working the chest with their magic. He could feel the mage's eyes on him as the minutes stretched on._

_Then, Anders finally broke the silence._

“ _Mein vatti – er, that is – my father,” Anders mumbled, his voice briefly taking on a hint of a second accent, which Leto knew to be Ander, having heard it a handful of times growing up in the North, “he would have liked you for I son, I think.”_

 _Leto blinked and looked up at him, utter surprise loosening his tongue before he could stop himself. “Your father would have liked an_ elf  _for a son.”_

 _Anders breathed out a short laugh. “That isn't what I – look, your_ ears  _are hardly what makes you who you are, Leto.”_

 _Leto's lips twitched. Anders was not only strange for a mage, he was strange for a human as well.“It is not just my_ ears _, Anders.”_

_Anders waved a hand. “You being elven has nothing to do with it.”_

_Leto considered these words, realizing that...it never seemed to, with Anders. He shifted in his seat. “Then...what does?”_

_Anders smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes._

_Leto nearly frowned at this. It was certainly rare to see this mage anything less than sunny and sarcastic. And despite Anders' usual flirting and endless stream of bad jokes, Leto found that he much preferred them to this forced smile._

“ _Do you know much of the Anderfels, Leto?”_

“ _Not really," Leto replied, honestly._

_Master did not speak of kindly of other nations. The Andersfels and Par Vollen, especially. What he knew of them extended little beyond how to face their soldiers in combat._

_The Anders were said to be a grim, hardy people. Living in a harsh, unyielding land ravage by Darkspawn – Blight or no Blight – they were always preparing for battle. Master often referred to them as mindless barbarians, said they had a worthless excuse for a monarchy and were led by Southern Chantry dogma and the whim of the Grey Warden's of Weisshaupt._

_None of these things seemed to coincide with Anders in the slightest._

_Leto waited patiently for Anders to continue, letting his eyes drop back to the table._

“ _My father often said that a man's worth could be measured by only two things: how well he can wield a weapon, and, how solid his work ethic. Said my grandfather said the same to him as a boy. Not that I remember his father. Never met him. I was...born in Ferelden, not the Anderfels." Anders' voice had grown soft, "I...used to wish I was, when I was a child. That I was more like...like he wanted me to be, I guess.”_

_Leto was taken aback by the shift in Anders' demeanor; the blonde's golden brown eyes were distant, his forced smile flagging completely and falling to a thoughtful frown._

“ _Of course I tried to live up to it all. Worked the farm, as was expected. Practiced with a sword the moment I could pick one up, but – well...I was never quite good enough, was I? Built more like my mum, I suppose. She was tall, and slender. My father was tall too though and well... I guess I've always felt a bit_ too  _tall. I was a gangly thing; all elbows and knees. By the time I lost myself with a fire spell and set the barn on fire, my father he...It was almost as if he looked at me like it had been...inevitable. Like I'd always been – wrong, anyhow. Not really his son. Just...wrong.”_

_Leto said nothing, a strange sort of shock keeping him silent. As if he were somehow intruding on something private and intimate, though he was the only one here, the only one Anders could possibly be talking to._

_Anders cleared his throat, flashing Leto that forced smile again. “Anyway, it's like I said – he would have liked you for a son, I think.”_

_Leto knew it was foolish, like he had known it was foolish a few nights before in Anders' clinic, the mage thrashing in some nightmare, his voice laced with a cadence of sorrow..._

_Without thought, Leto reached out a hand, letting his fingers curl over Anders' wrist and squeeze lightly, before he dropped it just as quickly._

_Anders' eyes snapped to his, his expression open with shock._

“ _Then..._ he  _was wrong,” Leto managed to say, meeting Anders eyes more squarely than he ever had before and holding them, voice carrying as much conviction as he could as he whispered, “Not you.”_

_Anders went very still, his eyes unblinking, moving slowly between Leto's pupils as if searching for some sort of...joke._

_Leto, for the first time, did not let his eyes drop._

“ _I um,” Anders said absently after a long moment, his face going scarlet, “that's er, very...”_

_Anders' eyes fell, and Leto let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding._

“ _...right, then,” Anders breathed, lifting a hand to rub over his stubbled cheek, “let's talk about something else, shall we?”_

_Leto found himself nodding. “...let's.”_

_There was a beat of silence, and it was, somehow, loaded. But not unpleasant._

“ _I'll tell you about my Mum,” Anders offered then, sunny smile back in full force, expression turning fond and wistful. “She was Ferelden. Beautiful, too. Had orange hair, like autumn leaves – and_ so  _many freckles, I remember once I tried to count them all and –_

Anders' open smile was the last Fenris remembered of that day before he was jarred out of his reverie with a carrying voice jerking him to reality.

“Broody?”

Fenris lifted his head, the ache of his markings registering first, before he realized he must have begun to doze back off.

After sitting himself up, Fenris had scarely gotten shakily to his feet before Varric was strolling through the door to the main hall, Isabela coming in behind him.

It was a testament to their skill as rogues that they both managed not to trip over the new assortment of slaver corpses.

"Those look fresh," Isabela observed, toeing a decaying elbow with one of her boots on her way in. "You taking up a collection, Fen?"

Fenris' head was decidedly not ready for Isabela's humor.

"You don't look so good Broody," Varric put in as he approached, and Fenris noticed then that the other man had a wooden box in his arms. 

Fenris leaned his weight against the table, not yet trusting his balance. "What do you want?"

"Sweet tempered as ever, I see," Isabela mused. "Would it be so unbelievable if we told you we were worried about you?"

"Hawke sent you." Fenris' voice was flat.

"Well, yes," Isabela said, "but we are concerned. 'Specially now that we've seen you. Is that vomit down your front?"

Fenris grimaced, casting a glance down his form and finding that there was, in fact, vomit staining his chest plate and tunic. 

"We should get you cleaned up," Varric said, setting the box on the table.

"Something I can do for myself," Fenris pointed out teresly. "What is that?" He indicated to the crate, inclining his throbbing head.

"Some stuff that you left at Hawke's." Varric answered, patting the box with the flat of his palm.

Fenris let these words sink in. "Leto's things."

Isabela raised a brow. "Yours now, actually. Leto  isn't exactly making a comeback now, is he?"

"Let's not make jokes about that just yet, Rivaini," Varric said. "We still have one left."

Fenris saw the dwarf glance his way, as if debating on whether or not mentioning Anders - even by implication - was a wise thing to do in front of him. 

"You can report back to Hawke now," Fenris turned from the box without another glance, "I am fine."

"You're severely hungover and covered in puke."

Fenris didn't bother responding to Isabela's pointed remark, taking unsteadily to the stairs without another word. 

He caught Isabela's sigh and Varric's murmur of, "Give him time. He'll be back to robbing us blind in cards in no time."

Fenris didn't listen for their depature, making it through his bedroom and into the washroom without stumbling, and bracing himself agaisnt the large, porcelain bathing tub. 

It took him a while longer than usual to divest himself of his soiled armor and leathers, but he eventually found his way into a bath, scrubbing at his skin.

When he finished and stepped out, thankfully clean of vomit and whateter else, his markings throbbing; he caught a glimpse of himself in the floor length mirror that was set into one of the washroom's walls.

Steam had layed a light layer of fog over the surface, and after a brief hesitation, he crossed the distance toward it, and lifted a hand to swipe a path of transparency with the flat of his palm.

Fenris met his own eyes, finding two very different men in his reflection.

\- - -

Varric returned two days later, bringing news of Hawke and accompanied by a human man that Fenris did not know.

Varric lingered in his visit this time, sitting with Fenris and telling him of how Hawke's return to Kirkwall as an adult had affected things around the city; and also brought troubling news of the increasing unrest among the Qunari since Seamus Dumar's murder.

The man with him had stayed in the foyer, working on his front door.

"You did know your door nob was bashed in, didn't you?" Varric asked conversationally.

Fenris recalled Hawke and Carver's skills at unlocking doors and supressed a slight smile.

"I did."

Varric shrugged. "All right well, ceiling holes and corpses are just fine and all - but I figured the front door closing was mandatory. At least for Aveline and the guard, that is. Keeps you further down the list of complaints from Hightown residents."

Fenris nodded. "You have my thanks, Varric."

Varric smiled. "Anytime, Broody. You uh, coming to Wicked Grace tomorrow night?"

Fenris had thought this over, and was still unsure. "I...do not know, yet. It is possible." 

"As long as you're considering it. Hawke will wanna see you. If you don't come, he'll come here looking for you. You know how he has trouble giving everyone space. He's been halfway down here twice already."

Fenris did smile then, but it fell as quickly as it came. 

"And...the search for the last artifact," as he said the words, his heart rate jumped unpleasantly in his chest, "any news?"

Varric gave him a long look, and Fenris knew he could see through the words; see the real question that he could not properly voice.

How is Anders?

_Is he okay? Has he done anything stupid lately? Is he safe?_

Fenris kept his face carefully impassive, so like Leto had always done, but these questions had eaten at him at the strangest moments.

As he fell asleep, alone, with silence his only company...

"Nothing new yet," Varric finally said, studying him thoughtfully, "still have a young apostate on our hands."

Fenris nodded, standing to walk with Varric to the newly fixed front door.

Varric lingered though, shooting a look at the table, and Fenris followed his gaze to the unopened box, left untouched since the dwarf had dropped it there two days prior. 

Varric said nothing about it, however, and left with nothing more than a friendly good-bye.

\- - -

Fenris managed to keep the box from his mind until the following day, finally deciding to do something about it.

A part of him had seriously considered just throwing into the fire, but he resisted; a separate part of him protesting too loudly, leading him to where he was now, three days with not so much as glancing in its direction.

Now he stood before it, tracing the square shape of it with his eyes. 

After half a bottle of wine, which he was appalled to realize made him somewhat tipsy, he relented; digging the tips of his gauntlets into the wood and prying off the lid. 

It fell to the floor with a 'thwack', and Fenris paid it no mind as he took in the contents. 

A pile of soft cotton clothes sat at the top, and Fenris removed them without a second glance. Beneath them sat the small assortment of Leto's things: the whetstone and lambskin journal that Anders had gifted to him, a jar of sword oil that Aveline had provided him with, a few books Leto had been studying, and Leto's alphabet chart set among a stack of papers. 

Fenris pulled the papers out, setting the chart aside. Hawke had been giving him lessons before this mess began; and he had long ago memorized those letters. With Leto's recent memories fresh in his mind, he doubted he would need to study it any time soon. Taking the papers, he leafed through them, finding mostly Leto's penning practice, as well as a few of the notes the others had scribbled to aid in his efforts. 

His hands paused at the bottom of the pile, finding a bound stack of papers he did not recognize.

Fenris pulled a chair, settling in at the table as he unwrapped the leather cord around the pages. 

The handwriting was instantly recognizable. They were letters, written by Anders.

Fenris leaned back in the seat, yanking the half-full bottle of wine to him and taking a long pull.

These had not found their way into this box on accident. Fenris scowled at them, unsure of who to blame but finding the likely culprit to be a certain dwarven rogue. 

A full five minutes passed before he yanked them to him again, glancing through them with a feigned disinterest. He was uncertain to whom it was he was trying to convince he did not care, seeing as he was completely alone. The corpses, perhaps. He grimaced to himself, concentrating on the text.

They were dated, and he found, conveniently in chronological order starting with the earliest letter.

Varric. Definitely Varric.

Despite his acute irritation with Varric, and to a much less deserved extent, Anders; Fenris found himself taking the first one in hand. He spent a good few minutes deciphering the words...

_Dear Warden Anders,_

_Hey there handsome, it's you! Or me. Or, whatever, you get the point._ _(Hopefully). But hey, just in case you don't; here's a little run down. Apparently Hawke went and put his hands where he ought not to have (big surprise there), and you got yourself turned into me! Or_ you _, that is, around a decade ago. You know, before you became a Grey Warden and developed a serious_ thing _for saving the world and all that business. First off, good job on becoming an apostate! Knew we could do it, mate._

 _Anyway, just thought I'd give you a heads up here: ~~Leto~~ Fenris (not sure how to spell that) was turned as well; and I'm sort of hopelessly infatuated with him. _ _So you should probably get over whatever it is that has you at odds with him, because if I can somehow manage to pull him, I won't have you messing it all up by being a complete prat. (Are we blind in the future or something? Have you seen him? Heard him speak?)_

 _P.S. We_ are _still handsome, aren't we? I mean, Grey Warden-ing is all well and good, but Maker please tell me our face is still pretty? Or at least,_ nicely _scarred, like some...dashing renegade?_

_\- The Anders that knows best, clearly_

Fenris didn't realize there was a faint smile pulling at his lips until he reached the end of the letter.

It faded when he did; but he read it a second time, despite this.

A knock sounded from the front room, nearly startling the page from his hands.

Fenris' face and ears still felt warm as he folded them quickly, tucking them back into the box as if they were some sort of intimate secret.

Fenris turned his attention to the visitor at his door, striding into the foyer. 

It was likely Hawke, finally giving in to his need to visit and check in on him...

Fenris pulled the door open, readying himself to speak with Hawke, but freezing on the spot, his stomach dropping.

A different mage stood before him.

Anders had a hand raised, as if to knock again, and it fell to side as he straightened up, meeting Fenris' eyes and flashing him a smile.

“Fenris,” Anders said, as if he had greeted him like this at his door a dozen times before. 

After the initial shock of seeing him passed,  Fenris' eyes trailed first to his neck, before moving over the rest of him and stopping on his face; shocked by how just  _seeing_  Anders made him feel...

Fenris steeled himself against it, drawing his face into a slight scowl.

"What is it?" He groused, keeping his voice gruff and disinterested.

Anders didn't seem deterred, but he visibly swallowed. "It's been uh, three days now. Can you beleive it?"

Fenris stared, nonplussed. "And?"

Anders shook his head. "Oh it's nothing. Just um, it's been a while and..."

He trailed off and cleared his throat before starting again. "I get the sense, from what I've heard from everyone else of course, that you - you're not too fond of...mages – of me, in particular – or well, the other me, and I - "

“Mage,” Fenris interrupted, and Anders' entire body seemed to freeze as he fell instantly silent.

“Is there an actual reason you are here?”

Anders looked thrown for a moment, his expression taking on too many emotions for Fenris keep track of before finally evening out with his crooked smile.

“It's Wicked Grace night.”

Fenris did not want to relax into a stance that invited further conversation, so he crossed his arms over his chest plate, keeping his expression closed. “So it is. Last I checked, that is held at the Hanged Man. Not, my mansion.”

“Right,” Anders said, looking down to his boots and back up as he lifted a hand to the collar of his coat, toying with the faded golden edges of the lapels.

Fenris said nothing, watching the fall of the loose strands of Anders' golden hair around his face.

“The thing is...” Anders finally continued after an awkward beat, his cheeks turning a bit pink when he said, “I was sort of hoping – wondering, that is – if we could maybe...walk together? To the Hanged Man?”

Fenris could think of nothing to say to that, a sharp pull in his chest an easy enough thing to brush off, but he had an unwanted, fleeting image of Anders –  _this_  Anders – walking alone in the early evening through Lowtown, no older companions to guide his way, no Darktown dwellers to keep a close watch...

No Leto, to guard his back.

Fenris' eyes snapped back in attention when Anders began to fidget, his fetching smile almost wavering under Fenris' inscrutable intensity.

“Why?” Fenris finally manged to grind out. He asked it almost forcibly, when he could think of nothing else, his gaze drifting back down to the fading bruises that painted the imprint of his own hands around Anders' neck.

The young mage had been so clearly infatuated with Leto. He couldn't possibly...

Anders blinked, his hand falling to his side. “Why? I, er – well. Because I want to? Because I...I miss you. And – it, just seems the proper thing to do, doesn't it?”

Fenris stared, face impassive, heart jumping to an impossible, painful speed in his chest.

“Y'know,” Anders' face darkened further, sparse freckles nearly lost under the scarlet tone. But his crooked smile was back in full force, looking somewhere between abashed and utterly sure of himself as he said in a rush, “when you're courting someone.”

 


	20. The Mage Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Really wanted to get this out to you faster, told myself I would, and look at me again. OTL Anyway, as always, thank you so much for reading this everyone. Your comments keep me going, and they are all fantastic. Thank you so much for reading and sticking with this!! <3
> 
> (Also as a side note: I snuck Sketch from DA:O into this chapter. His role is very small, but I've always been oddly fond of him. Plus he's in Kirkwall in DA2 very briefly, and I've always thought he deserved more from his cameo.)

Anders could easily place this moment somewhere among the top ten most difficult and painfully awkward of his entire life.

And honestly, that was saying something, given his penchant for getting himself into trouble. Not to mention his tendency to run his mouth.

When he had arrived at the Hightown mansion, it had taken him a good ten minutes to work up the nerve to even _knock._ But he had steeled himself against any persistent thoughts of fleeing before he could act.

He could do this. He _wanted_ to do this.

Had wanted to do this three days ago; the moment that Hawke, Isabela, and Carver had walked through the doors of the Amell estate and there had been no white-haired elf to be found among them. The very night that Anders' already upside down life had turned into some sort of personal joke of the Maker's.

The chest had worked. But of course things couldn't just work out that easily, Anders should have known better by now. Nothing in his life ever went remotely in the direction he thought it would.

Leto had aged, along with Hawke and Carver.

And Anders was still himself. Stuck in this dream.

A 'dream' that was swiftly becoming _less_ than ideal...

It wasn't just that Carver was a Templar – and hadn't _that_ been a nasty little surprise – or that the Hawke brother's father and sister were actually _dead_ ; that they had been, the entire time.

And it wasn't that the others were _still_ refusing to tell Anders any details that they were keeping from him about his older self – that even _Hawke_ was refusing to tell him. That shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

But when Anders had hopefully persisted, the other mage had done little more than give him a pained look, before shaking his head and firmly closing the matter. Bloody bearded traitor.

No, it wasn't that they were all treating Anders like he was some sort of _child_ , even after everything they'd been through together.

It was Leto. _Fenris._

Hawke had refused to tell him anything about his future Grey Warden self, but after returning to the estate three nights before, he had been more than willing to bring Anders painstakingly up to speed on what he knew of Leto's life.

Of...of Fenris' life, that is.

Fenris, who hadn't even known his own _name._

Anders shook these thoughts off as he stood before Fenris now, needing to remain collected as he waited with a pounding heart for any sort of response after his bold statement.

Maker but he wanted...

He wanted to close the distance between them.

He wanted to turn promptly around and retrace his steps.

Instead, he remained still. Caught in Fenris' fathomless eyes, pinned to the spot.

Why wasn't he _saying_ anything?

Fenris was a tense form in the mansion’s doorway, the closed expression on his face framed with stark white hair that matched the lyrium lines tattooed into his dark skin. It was a bit jarring to take in given what Anders had grown used to with the other man's younger appearance, but he was no less attractive at this age. Striking, certainly.

He looked to be a bit taller than what Anders had become used to with Leto, Anders noted absently as he fought to keep from fidgeting.

But, really not by much that Anders could tell. And he himself was still a bit taller than the elf.

Yet there was definitely a way that Fenris held himself that differed from Leto entirely. Anders had never felt like he was looking down at Leto. The elf's gaze had often been trained downward, yes, but the bodyguard had always held himself straight, poised to act with an attentiveness that Anders had always thought looked to be a bit exhausting.

Fenris on the other hand, made Anders feel as though his piercing green gaze were somehow looking _down_ at him. Not in any sort of haughty sense; but...a sense of challenge. A readiness to fight.

And win said fight.

Fenris stood with a somewhat slumped stance that reminded Anders unmistakably of a tensed predator, ready to spring.

Or perhaps that was simply because he was currently looking at Anders. _Glowering at Anders_ , more like.

Anders swallowed thickly, actively attempting to make the sound utterly inaudible to belay his onset of nerves. He was uncomfortably aware of his pounding pulse over every inch of his body, his palms almost feeling cold with sweat.

Yet he remained unfailingly with an easy smile in place, trying hard not to appear _too_ hopeful as he waited for Fenris to finally respond to his little proclamation. Anders was going for suave. He could do suave, right?

But Fenris had said absolutely nothing yet. A handful of agonizing minutes of complete and utter silence.

Right. Scratch that. This was somewhere among the top _five_ most difficult and painfully awkward of his entire life.

It was officially displacing the time he had been caught entirely bare-arsed in the library stacks by that swarmy bastard Enchanter Uldred. It had been in the earliest morning hours after a, _er_ – less than innocent rendezvous that had taken place up against a row of books that were, apparently, 'worth more than the whole lot of you apprentices combined'.

Of course that hadn't actually been too awkward. Anders had certainly had plenty to say, after all.

Unlike his _current_ situation.

Anders bit the inside of his cheek as the silence between them stretched into something _worse_ than painfully awkward.

Andraste's shapely arse but he couldn't do this.

“Fenris?” he prompted before he could stop himself, “we should – probably...get going, right? The sun's going down an all, and you know how uh, Kirkwall can get after dark – ”

“You are not courting me, mage.”

Anders' mouth fell promptly shut at the sharp interruption, almost relieved at the sound of that deep voice even if the words were not the least bit cutting.

Right. Can't say he wasn't expecting that, but still.

“Actually,” Anders said, keeping his own voice as steady and confident as he could, “I _am_ courting you. Right now. See?”

He pointedly motioned to himself, standing at Fenris' doorstep.

Fenris' eyes visibly narrowed.

Anders' smile turned a touch crooked. Too cheeky? Leto had never appeared to much appreciate his cheek. What made him think that Fenris would?

“You, are _not_ courting me, mage.” Fenris repeated in a dry rumble, considerably slower this time around, as though Anders were unbearably thick.

And there it was again. _Mage._ Every time Fenris had spoken to him since answering the door.

Was that all he saw, then? Was that really all Anders was to him now...?

“I am though,” Anders insisted with a stubborn cheeriness, brushing passed a familiar hurt and respondent irritation.

Prejudice against mages was nothing new to him. It certainly stung, coming from someone he cared so much about but...given what Hawke had told him about Fenris' opinions of magic, he wasn't surprised.

Anders would simply have to make Fenris see him for _who_ he was beyond _what_ he was.

Which was, as a rule, something Anders never bothered with usually. Bigots were all prats he could care less about the opinions of. Or...so he told himself.

“I do not accept,” Fenris said, and his expression was closed, his voice detached. His gaze was firm though, and Anders' smile was threatening to waver.

Then Anders made a face before he could stop himself. “Well, too bloody bad. You accepted about a month ago, and I'm not finished.”

Maker's bollocks did that sound childish. Anders bit lightly into his tongue in a vain attempt to hold it in check.

Fenris' dark brows twitched the slightest bit upward – and Anders honestly didn't think he would have noticed so small a detail before meeting Leto – but they drew down into a scowl a beat later. “You are mistaken, then. I am not that man, you and I hold no agreement.”

Anders felt himself go still.

“Whatever dalliance you have fooled yourself into believing could have worked has disappeared with him.”

Anders' heart skipped, and he couldn't keep his mouth shut. “You know, that's so funny – I could have sworn he was _standing right in front of me.”_

Fenris did little in the way of reacting. “You are wrong, mage. Leto does not exist. Now go home.”

No. He does. He's _right here._ He isn't just _gone._

Anders tried hard to keep any hint of the growing desperation he felt from his voice as he grasped at reasoning, “But – you _are_ Leto.”

Fenris was suddenly _there –_ inches from Anders' face in the merest blink of an eye, as if by magic; and Anders couldn't help the rush of breath that left him, couldn't stop the slightest flinch.

Fenris' eyes – _Leto's_ eyes – were unmistakably cold as they met his. “No,” he breathed in a low voice, “I am not, mage. Now leave,” his expression hardened, “before I make you.”

Anders' heart threatened to stutter to a stop, but it was back to full speed in seconds. “Make me?” He had meant to sound teasing, but it came out in a breathless rush. Fenris was so close. _So close._

“Do not test me, mage.”

He _smelled_ like Leto. Like Leto, and rich wine, raw lyrium.

“I'm not scared of you,” Anders said softly.

Maker he just wanted to lean in closer, to breath him in.

To take five steps back.

“You wouldn't hurt me,” Anders said, a little louder, with more conviction.

Fenris wouldn't hurt him. Anders _was not scared of him._

Fenris' eyes trailed pointedly down to Anders' neck, and Anders felt a brief flash of steel claws digging into his skin, an implacable hold closing around his throat, crushing the breath from his windpipe.

“Wouldn't I, mage?”

Anders' eyes flitted slowly between two achingly familiar green pupils.

“You wouldn't,” Anders said again with an perceptible shake of his head, meeting the other man's eyes without flinching. “I trust you.”

The words had scarcely left his lips before Fenris was gone from his field of view.

There was a tangible flash of those lyrium markings before Anders could register any movement beyond a hazed blur, and the door to the mansion slammed shut in his face without another word.

Anders waited for his heart to slow, a disappointed ache weighing in his chest and spreading into his limbs.

“That's a...no, then?” He joked weakly to himself.

Anders would have thought it impossible to move with his legs so unbearably shaky and stiff, but he slumped forward, his forehead knocking pathetically against the mansion's smooth wooden door as he took a deep breath.

So much for Wicked Grace night.

\- - -

Anders’ walk through Hightown was a slow endeavor, his boots scraping a bit on the occasional uneven stone in the paved streets.

He hadn’t bothered to linger at the mansion's door to see if the taciturn warrior would show himself; it seemed painfully obvious he was going to skip the card game entirely if Anders was present. Fenris hadn’t shown his face even once at the Amell estate or the Hanged Man since he had returned to his proper age three days before.

Anders honestly didn’t know what he had been expecting.

What? He’d show up with a charming smile and a few witty remarks and Fenris would drop any pretenses just like that? They'd walk to the Hanged Man together, trade heated looks of longing over cards and have a few drinks, maybe even some drunken cuddling after Anders delivers some of his best one-liners?

Anders scoffed, kicking at the cobbled stone with the toe of one of his frayed boots.

Fenris wanted nothing to do with him.

Again, not something he found too surprising given what Hawke had told him, but still...there had been a pathetic hope that maybe things might go a bit differently, one that Anders couldn't help but feel.

Fenris remembered. He remembered _everything_ , and he still...

Still _hated_ him.

Because he was a mage..?

No, that didn't make sense. Fenris didn't hate Hawke at all, from what Anders could gather.

How much a bastard was he when he was older, then? What did Fenris hold against him so vehemently?

Thinking back to the moment though, Anders realized that there hadn't actually been much vehemence. More...indifference, mixed in with irritation. Like Anders was nothing more than an annoyance come to interrupt his day of brooding, and by the smell of it, wine drinking -- easily forgotten after he’d been run off.

Anders came to a slow stop in the Hightown streets at the front of the Amell estate, thoughts churning with that fresh hurt as he glanced up to the library window.

He didn't feel much up for playing cards with the others tonight. Didn't want to face the pitying glances from the others and forcing his own jokes about Fenris' pointed absence because he'd managed to fuck up once again.

But he also didn't want to return to that empty library. He didn't want to spend another night there with those damn texts that he had no interest in figuring out any longer. What was the point?

The urgency to get them deciphered had died down considerably now that Hawke was his older bearded-self again.

Hawke had expressed that he wanted to see Anders returned as soon as they could as well, but there was a growing concern about the contingent Qunari in the city that seemed to take up most of Hawke's time the past three days.

But Anders also didn't want to return to the mass of blankets and pillows that had made up Leto's sleep space either. When Orana had come to collect it when it was clear that Leto would not be returning to it, Anders had insisted she take his instead, clambering into Leto's bed and burying his face in the pillows and plush blankets to chase the last of him left in the estate.

The scent of him had faded almost entirely after just two nights.

Maker but Anders missed him.

It churned like a physical ache in his chest, as though something had been somehow simultaneously lodged there and removed all in one go. Seeing him every single day for two months, hearing his voice, sleeping beside him. All it gone without warning, leaving nothing in his wake but the memories of his presence in Anders' life

It reminded him – painfully, _sharply_ – of losing Karl.

Anders' feet began to move before he had a clear destination in mind, taking to the steps that led away from Hightown.

He found his thoughts lingering unwillingly on the lyrium markings as his feet carried him dejectedly into Lowtown. The sun had been low in the sky when Anders had been walking through Hightown, and now he couldn't see it among the amber toned clouds above, dusk settling over the lower Kirkwall district and slowly chilling the air.

He had been able to feel the lyrium, even though it had not touched him. He could faintly recall the feel of it against his throat with Fenris hand, the burning, almost tingling pressure of its power against his skin.

Pure, unfiltered lyrium, _branded_ into Leto's body.

Anders had been circling back to this over the past three days. It never failed to hit him like a punch to the gut, to draw his brows down or pinch them together.

“ _Raw_ lyrium? _Into his_ skin? _That's what those are?” Anders thought his own voice sounded increasingly unintelligible with each subsequent question, his tone climbing higher with incredulity._

_Hawke ran a broad hand down over his face, pausing to scratch his beard, before nodding. Anders had noticed him do it a few times now, as though the feel of it were something he was unaccustomed to._

“ _According to Fenris, Danarius was known for his experimentation with blood magic. It makes him a powerful figure in the Imperium. Fenris himself was supposedly Danarius' greatest creation: a living lyrium weapon.”_

 _Anders felt as though he might be sick. “How is that even_ possible? _How did he even survive it?”_

 _Hawke shook his head. “Fenris is strong. Danraius is mad. Don't know the logistics, and I honestly don't want to. Point is, Fenris_ did _survive, but he...it was incredibly painful, as you might imagine. So painful that the ritual...did something to his mind. Wiped it clear of anything but the pain. And he doesn't like to talk about it, but...it still hurts him. Every day. The lyrium, that is.”_

 _Anders thought of Leto's conviction, of his relief at having won the tournament for his family, the very win that would promise this fucking_ nightmare _in his future_.

_He hadn't realized his eyes were filling until his vision began to blur Hawke's figure standing before him. It was a raw, furious pain; one that left his eyes watering and his teeth clenched around ragged breath._

“ _Anders,” Hawke said softly, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder and squeezing, “he doesn't even remember_ being _Leto. After Danarius performed the ritual that gave him his markings; he was Fenris. He's...known nothing else. Nothing about himself. Until now, that is. It can't be easy for him...”_

By the time Anders' feet had brought him to the nearest steps leading down into Darktown, the sun was nowhere to be seen in the sky, the dimly lit torches and lanterns his only guide as he descended into Kirkwall's under city.

When he finally reached his clinic, Anders was almost relieved to see that there was someone there already. A young human woman with her small wisp of a daughter, staring up at the unlit lantern with a furrowed brow.

The woman's expression had transformed into one of stark relief upon seeing Anders approaching, and he had been been more than willing to look over her daughter's head injury the moment he could get the doors open. The poor thing had had a nasty fall, and Anders was glad to have been there to see to it.

As more patiently followed quickly with traveling word that his clinic was open, Anders lost himself in the small crowds of those in need of healing, happy to lose himself in casting his magic freely to help others. It was exhausting work, but he found it more than gratifying even as the hours wore on.

There were many things he could not even begin to fathom about himself when he was older, but this was something that Anders thought he was quick to understand. He had always welcomed his abilities as a spirit healer, been proud to hone them. And there really seemed to be so many people in Kirkwall that were in need of them, weren’t there?

When the last of the patients had trickled out well into the evening, Anders could feel a strange sort of disappointment eating at him, despite how his body sagged with utter exhaustion the moment he sat at the nearest cot, his head aching a bit.

He was so very tired but...he had welcomed the distraction, the purpose.

It was only a matter of time before one of his friends showed up to bring him safely back to the Amell estate, and Anders didn't want to face any of it just yet...

One of the doors of his clinic was wrenched open and a hooded figure strolled in, pulling back the hood as he came closer, and Anders was up on his feet again, ready to help in any way he could.

Fatigue pulled at him, but Anders' hands were already lifting of their own accord, a ready net of magic prepared to cloak the newcomer and assess any damage he was prepared to heal.

To his surprise, the man pulled a hand from under his cloak and held it up to stop the motion.

"Do you really just cast without a care every time?" he asked, sounding a touch incredulous. The man was an elf, with brown hair and matching brown eyes.

Anders blinked, a bit thrown. His hands fell quickly to his side, magic receding. "I er – sorry?"

The stranger shook his head. "It's nothing. Your reputation appears to proceed you, is all."

Anders couldn't help his immediate inclination to smile, letting it comfortably cover his confusion. "Oh? Would that be of my dashing looks? My roguish charm?"

The man appeared decidedly nonplussed. "Actually I was referring to an apostate openly using magic in front of a perfect stranger. Most of us prefer discretion.”

Before Anders could offer a response to that, the elf had gestured with his raised hand. There was a tangible pull in the air, and then a magelight was dancing before him.

Anders' mouth fell closed and he found himself staring at it with sudden interest. Magelight was nothing special of course, one of the first spells for an apprentice to cast.

But this one had been shaped in the casting, forming a distinctive shape that Anders instantly recognized, one he had seen multiple times scribbled into the margins of the endless pages written by – well, written by _himself._ When he was older, that is.

He was just readying to ask the other mage what the strange symbol meant exactly, when he was stopped short.

“You are Anders, right?”

Anders' gaze flicked back to the elf, finding him with a raised brow and an expectant look, glancing between Anders and the magelight he had just conjured.

“The apostate healer of Darktown?” The other mage prompted when Anders took too long to reply, looking both impatient and perhaps even a bit nervous. “Leader of the Mage Underground?”

 _Leader?_ Of the what now?

Anders' eyes traced the shape of the magelight once more, realization taking hold.

The elven mage had the start of a frown pulling at his expression, and as always, Anders' mouth was up to speed far quicker than his brain.

“Oh, er – yes! That's me, isn't it? Mage Underground. Right. Of course!” Anders managed to turn his nervous laugh into a small chuckle. “How many other Darktown apostate healers do you know?”

Honestly, Anders had no idea if there were more. Seemed a bit unlikely though, considering how many patients had come through the handful of times he had visited his clinic.

“Seeing as I don't prefer to come down here if I can avoid it, I'd say just the one,” The other mage said dryly, and the light flickered out as the elf withdrew his hand. “My name is Sketch. I have something for you that I promised to deliver.”

Sketch moved to retrieve something from beneath his shrouded cloak. “But,” the elf fixed Anders with a sharp brown-eyed stare, “don't expect me to play messenger boy for you or any of your contacts in the Gallows. I have enough problems without getting mixed up in the Underground. Doing this as a favor I owe to get some people off my back. Nothing more.”

When Anders did little more than stare, Sketch gave him yet another expectant look.

“Right,” Anders said quickly, realizing himself. “No problem – thanks, for that. I'll just er, take your...delivery and...”

Sketch gave him an odd look, but wordlessly pulled a rolled sheaf of parchment out and held it up to him at arms-length, as though it were somehow dangerous. “Here. I've been told it is...sensitive information. You're to burn it after you've read it.”

Anders took the pages, attempting to appear as though this were something he dealt with all the time; should he be casual? Or somber? The leader of the Mage Underground sounds like a somber title. But it’s _him_.

Anders isn’t a somber leader, is he? Then again he _is_ a Grey Warden. They seem like a somber enough lot, don’t they -

Sketch cleared his throat.

Anders stood up straighter, clutching the roll of parchment close to his chest.

“Like I said,” Sketch mumbled pointedly, “I'm not going to play messenger for your group, Anders. But...I do have to admit. What you’re doing is admirable work, if not completely insane.”

Anders forced a smile. “Right! Brilliant work we do. Erm, is there anything in particular you find - admirable?”

What in the Void did one do in the Mage Underground? Is this one of the secrets the others were keeping from him?

Anders' hold tightened around the papers at the thought, his heart speeding a bit in both apprehension and excitement.

And it _did_ sound rather exciting, didn’t it? Leader of the Mage Underground. He had his very own title! 

Sketch was giving him an odd look again, and Anders trained his expression to one a touch less eager and a bit more respectable.

“Breaking other mages out of the Gallows, of course,” Sketch said like it was obvious. “No one deserves that life. And the Templars here in Kirkwall are the worst of the Order I’ve ever seen. I’ll be heading out of Kirkwall soon enough, I can tell you that much.”

Anders felt a thrill go through him when Sketch explained, but he fought to keep from grinning.

He did _what?_

He was _breaking other mages out?_

Andraste’s bouncing tits, that’s bloody impressive! And completely mad!

Anders’ mind was whirling with this new found impression of his older self, and he regarded the pages he held clutched close with raised brows.

This was important, he realized. Very important. Lives were at stake. Including his own.

Anders carefully slipped the sheaf safety into his robes.

He hadn’t noticed that Sketch was leaving until he was already at the door, and Anders followed hurriedly after him, watching him slip into the shadows of Darktown without so much as a backward glance.

The bundle of papers seemed to have a noticeable weight where he had tucked them, despite being far from heavy.

Anders felt a sharp shot of nerves that tingled at the tips of his fingers, and he made quick work of extinguishing the lantern, determined to see to his new task.

He gave one cursory glance outside his clinic, feeling oddly like he was being watched but knowing it was likely the state he had worked himself into.

Or, perhaps it was one of those mabari-sized rats that seemed to be Darktown's very own mascot.

Anders grimaced, quickly sliding the doors closed and barring them without another thought.

With the doors shut and his privacy secured, Anders moved to settle in at the desk in the far corner – his desk, he supposed – and pulled the papers from his robes.

He unfastened the binding around the pages with slightly shaking fingers and spread them out under his hands, smoothing the curl that they had developed on their journey to his Clinic.

Despite that same mixture of excitement and anxiety buzzing in his system, Anders decided that it really was far too quiet for his liking in the now empty clinic.

Before waking in Kirkwall, he had been in Kinloch Hold; living in far too close quarters with dozens of others. Not to mention the suffocating presence of the Tempalrs at every turn. As it was, lone silence was simply not something he was accustomed to.

And, in that moment, it reminded him of falling asleep in an empty library...

Anders determinedly cut that line of thought off before it could take any sort of turn.

He was not here to think about Fenris.

 _Right._ Leader of the Mage Underground. Very important business to attend to. Absolutely no time to think about green eyes flashing with...obvious distaste.

Anders swallowed.

With his own determination fresh in his memory, Anders emboldened himself with his duty to the Mage Underground. Concentrating on the pages before him, he cleared his unused throat and mumbled softly to himself as he read, starting with the hasty scribbling that titled the battered parchment.

A frown pulled at his lips and knit his brow as he read.

Anders felt an uncomfortable shiver working through him as he looked down at the title.

“Well this just sounds like a bloody Satinalia and First Day all rolled into one now, doesn't it?” he mumbled to himself, scooting the chair closer to the desk.

He didn't know what this was yet, but it didn't sound in the least bit promising, particularly to any mage.

Starting again, he raised his voice a bit louder in the silent Clinic as he read the words that titled the documents aloud once more.

“The...tranquil solution.”

\- - -

Fenris remained tactfully still where he stood tucked against a wall as he watched the hooded figure exit Anders' clinic.

His eyes narrow in the dimly lit corridor as they follow the figure's swift retreat, not missing the careful, solicitous glance they cast about before taking to a flight of steps that would lead them deeper into the depths of Darktown.

Casting his own glance back to the Clinic, Fenris caught sight of Anders at the door frame, reaching a pale hand up to snuff out the lantern's flame.

He appeared to be rather tired, but on the whole – unharmed.

Fenris shifted very slightly where he stood, irritation over the entire situation warring with a clear wave of relief that he was determined to ignore.

Rather than consider his own actions – the ones that had led him where he currently stood, standing outside Anders' clinic after having surreptitiously shadowed the mage's steps from Hightown – Fenris found his thoughts lingering over the hooded figure.

The hooded figure that had not been the least bit injured when they had very hurriedly made their way to the clinic of Darktown's infamous apostate healer.

Fenris watched as Anders' honey-toned eyes seemed to scan over the corridor, passing over where Fenris was tucked into the dark and seemingly missing him entirely, before the mage prudently slid the Clinic's doors shut.

The distinctive, unmistakable thunking sound of a wooden bar dropping to keep them bolted shut was the last Fenris would hear from the young man until Hawke and Aveline would show up to collect him hours later.

 


End file.
